- 


DREAM     LIFE: 


31  fable 

OF     THE     SEASONS 


Kft. 


We  are  such  stuff 

As  dreams  are  made  of;  and  our  little  life 
Li  rounded  with  a  sleep.— TEMPEST. 


NEW  YORK: 

-ScrHmer, 

1852. 

LIBRARY 

UNIVERSITY  OF  CALIFORNIA 
DAVIS 


Entered  according  to  Act  of  Congress,  in  the  year  1851,  by 

DONALD    G.    MITCHELL, 

In  the  Clerk's  Office  of  the  District  Court  of  the  United  States  for  the 
Southern  District  of  New  York. 


C.  W.  BENEDICT. 
STEREOTYPER  AND  PRINTER, 
201  William  st .  N.  Y 


DEDICATORY  LETTER 


ADDRESSED  TO 


WASHINGTON    IRVING. 


MY  DEAR  SIR: 

I  DO  not  know  to  whom  I  could  more 
appropriately  dedicate  this  little  hook  than  to 
one  who  has  been  so  long  my  teacher;  and 
who  has  seemed  to  be,  so  long,  my  friend. 

It  is  true,  that  until  six  months  ago,  I  had 
never  the  honor  of  meeting  with  you  :  but, 
there  are  thousands,  Sir,  who  have  never  seen 
you  who  yet  know  you,  and  esteem  you,  as 
fully  as  myself. 


ii  DEDICATORY    LETTER. 

If  I  have  attained  to  any  facility  in  the  use 
of  language,  or  have  gained  any  fitness  of 
expression,  in  which  to  dress  my  thoughts, — I 
know  not  to  what  writer  of  the  English 
language,  I  am  more  indebted,  than  to  you. 
And  if  I  have  shown — as  I  have  tried  to 
show — a  truthfulness  of  feeling,  that  is  not 
lighted  by  any  counterfeit  of  passion,  but 
rather,  by  a  close  watchfulness  of  nature,  and  a 
cordial  sympathy  with  human  suffering — I 
know  not  to  what  man's  heart,  that  truthful 
ness  will  come  home  sooner,  than  to  your's. 

Believe  me,  Dear  Sir,  it  is  from  no  wish  to 
associate  my  name  with  the  names  of  the 
great,  that  I  ask  your  acceptance  of  this  little 
token  of  respect.  My  aims  are  humbler  than 
this :  I  would  simply  pay  homage  to  the 
Author,  who  has  wrought  our  language  into 
the  most  exquisite  forms  of  beauty  ;  and  to  the 
man,  who  has  touched  our  hearts,  with  the 
tenderness  of  a  friend. 


DEDICATORY    LETTER.  iii 

And  if  I  might  hope,  that  this  simple  mark 
of  my  admiration,  and  of  my  esteem,  would 
commend  me  to  your  charity — to  say  nothing 
of  your  regard — it  is  all  that  I  would  ask. 


DONALD  G.  MITCHELL. 


CONTENTS. 


INTRODUCTORY. 

I.  WITH  MY  AUNT  TABITHY,    .  11 

II.  WITH  MY  READER,                          ;  20 

DREAMS  OF  BOYHOOD. 

SPRING, *      .  33 

I.  RAIN  IN  THE  GARRET,           ....  38 

II.  SCHOOL  DREAMS, 45 

III.  BOY  SENTIMENT,     .        •         .        ,        .        .  56 


INTRODUCTORY. 


WITH    MY    AUNT    TABITHY. 

|SHAW!— said  my  Aunt  Tabithy,— have 
you  not  done  with  dreaming  ? 

My  Aunt  Tabithy,  though  an  excellent  and  most 
notable  person,  loves  occasionally  a  quiet  bit  of  satire. 
And  when  I  told  her  that  I  was  sharpening  my 
pen  for  a  new  story  of  those  dreamy  fancies,  and  half 
experiences,  which  lie  grouped  along  the  journeying 
hours  of  my  solitary  life,  she  smiled  as  if  in  derision. 

"  Ah,  Isaac,"  said  she,  "  all  that  is  exhausted  : 

you  have  rung  so  many  changes  on  your  hopes  and 


12  DREAM-LIFE. 

your  dreams,  that  you  have  nothing  left,  but  to  make 
them  real if  you  can." 

It  is  very  idle  to  get  angry  with  a  good-natured  old 
lady :  I  did  better  than  this : — I  made  her  listen 
to  me. 

Exhausted,  do  you  say,  Aunt  Tabithy  ?  Is  life 

then  exhausted,  is  hope  gone  out,  is  fancy  dead  f 

No,  no.  Hope  and  the  world  are  full ;  and  he  who 
drags  into  book-pages  a  phase  or  two  of  the  great  life 
of  passion,  of  endurance,  of  love,  of  sorrow,  is  but 
wetting  a  feather,  in  the  sea  that  breaks  ceaselessly 
along  the  great  shore  of  the  years.  Every  man's 
heart  is  a  living  drama ;  eveiy  death  is  a  drop-scene ; 
every  book  only  a  faint  foot-light  to  throw  a  little  flicker 
on  the  stage. 

There  is  no  need  of  wandering  widely  to  catch 
incident  or  adventure  :  they  are  everywhere  about  us  ; 
each  day  is  a  succession  of  escapes  and  joys ; — not 
perhaps  clear  to  the  world,  but  brooding  in  our  thought, 
and  living  in  our  brain.  From  the  very  first,  Angels 
and  Devils  are  busy  with  us,  and  we  are  struggling 
against  them,  and  for  them. 

No,  no,  Aunt  Tabithy, — this  life  of  musing  does  not 
exhaust  so  easily.  It  is  like  the  springs  on  the  farm 
land,  that  are  fed  with  all  the  showers  and  the  dews  of 
the  year,  and  that  from  the  narrow  fissures  of  the  rock, 
send  up  streams  continually : — or  it  is  like  the  deep 


INTRODUCTORY.  13 

well  in  the  meadow,  where  one  may  see  stars  at  noon — 
when  no  stars  are  shining. 

What  is  Reverie,  and  what  are  these  Day-dreams, 
but  fleecy  cloud-drifts  that  float  eternally,  and  eternally 
change  shapes,  upon  the  great  over-arching  sky  of 
thought  ?  You  may  seize  the  strong  outlines  that  the 
passion  breezes  of  to-day  shall  throw  into  their  figures ; 
but  to-morrow  may  breed  a  whirlwind  that  will  chase 
swift,  gigantic  shadows  over  the  heaven  of  your 
thought,  and  change  the  whole  landscape  of  your  life. 

Dream-land  will  never  be  exhausted,  until  we  enter 
the  land  of  dreams ;  and  until,  in  "  shuffling  off  this 
mortal  coil,"  thought  will  become  fact,  and  all  facts  will 
be  only  thought. 

As  it  is,  I  can  conceive  no  mood  of  mind  more  in 
keeping  with  what  is  to  follow  upon  the  grave,  than 
those  fancies  which  warp  our  frail  hulks  toward  the 
ocean  of  the  Infinite  ;  and  that  so  sublimate  the 
realities  of  this  being,  that  they  seem  to  belong  to 
that  shadowy  realm,  where  every  day's  journey  is 
leading. 

It  was  warm  weather  ;  and  my  aunt  was  dozing. 
"  What  is  this  all  to  be  about  ?"  said  she,  recovering 
her  knitting  needle. 

"About  love,  and  toil,  and  duty,  and  sorrow," 
said  I. 


14  DREAM -LiFE. 

My  aunt  laid  down  her  knitting,  looked  at  me  ever 
the  rim  of  her  spectacles,  and took  snuff. 

I  said  nothing. 

"How  many  times  have  you  been  in  love,  Isaac?" 
said  she. 

It  was  now  my  turn  to  say — — "  Pshaw  !" 

Judging  from  her  look  of  assurance,  I  could  not 
possibly  ha  ye  made  a  more  satisfactory  reply. 

My  aunt  finished  the  needle  she  was  upon — smoothed 
the  stocking  leg  over  her  knee,  and  looking  at  me  with 
a  very  comical  expression,  said, — "  Isaac,  you  are  a  sad 
fellow !" 

I  did  not  like  the  tone  of  this :  it  sounded  very  much 
as  if  it  would  have  been  in  the  mouth  of  any  one  else 
'  bad  fellow.' 

And  she  went  on  to  ask  me  in  a  very  bantering  way, 
if  my  stock  of  youthful  loves  was  not  nearly  exhausted ; 
and  she  cited  the  episode  of  the  fair-haired  Enrica,  as 
perhaps  the  most  tempting  that  I  could  draw  from  my 
experience. 

A  better  man  than  myself, — if  he  had  only  a  fail- 
share  of  vanity, — would  have  been  nettled  at  this  ;  and 
I  replied  somewhat  tartly,  that  I  had  never  professed 
to  write  my  experiences.  These  might  be  more  or  less 
tempting ;  but  certainly,  if  they  were  of  a  kind  which 
I  have  attempted  to  portray  in  the  characters  of  Bella, 
or  of  Carry,  neither  my  Aunt  Tabithy  nor  any  one  else, 


INTRODUCTORY.  15 

should  have  learned  such  truth  from  any  book  of  mine. 
There  are  griefs  too  sacred  to  be  babbled  to  the  world  ; 
and  there  may  be  loves,  which  one  would  forbear  to 
whisper  even  to  a  friend. 

No,  no, — imagination  has  been  playing  pranks  with 
memory ;  and  if  I  have  m»ade  the  feeling  real,  I  am 
content  that  the  facts  should  be  false.  Feeling  indeed 
has  a  higher  truth  in  it,  than  circumstance.  It  appeals 
to  a  larger  jury,  for  acquittal :  it  is  approved  or  con 
demned  by  a  better  judge.  And  if  I  can  catch  this 
bolder  and  richer  truth  of  feeling,  I  will  not  mind  if 
the  types  of  it  are  all  fabrications. 

If  I  run  over  some  sweet  experience  of  love,  (my 
Aunt  Tabithy  brightened  a  little)  must  I  make  good 
the  fact  that  the  loved  one  lives,  and  expose  her  name 
and  qualities,  to  make  your  sympathy  sound  ?  Or 
shall  I  not  rather  be  working  upon  higher  and  holier 
ground,  if  I  take  the  passion  for  itself,  and  so  weave  it 
into  words,  that  you,  and  every  willing  sufferer  may 
recognize  the  fervor,  and  forget  the  personality  ? 

Life  after  all  is  but  a  bundle  of  hints,  each  suggesting 
actual  and  positive  developement,  but  rarely  reaching  it. 
And  as  I  recal  these  hints,  and  in  fancy,  trace  them  to 
their  issues,  I  am  as  truly  dealing  with  life,  as  if  my  lift 
had  dealt  them  all  to  me. 

This  is  what  I  would  be  doing  in  the  present  book  ; — 
I  would  catch  up  here  and  there  the  shreds  of  feeling, 


16  DREAM-LIFE. 

which  the  brambles  and  roughnesses  of  the  world  have 
left  tangling  on  my  heart,  and  weave  them  out  into 
those  soft,  and  perfect  tissues,  which — if  the  world  had 
been  only  a  little  less  rough, — might  now  perhaps 
enclose  my  heart  altogether. 

"  Ah,"  said  my  Aunt  Tabithy,  as  she  smoothed  the 
stocking  leg  again,  with  a  sigh, — "  there  is  after  all  but 
one  youth- time  :  and  if  you  put  down  its  memories 
once,  you  can  find  no  second  growth." 

My  Aunt  Tabithy  was  wrong.  There  is  as  much 
growth  hi  the  thoughts  and  feelings  that  run  behind  us, 
as  in  those  that  run  before  us.  You  may  make  a  rich, 
full  picture  of  your  childhood  to-day ;  but  let  the  hour 
go  by,  and  the  darkness  stoop  to  your  pillow  with  its 
million  shapes  of  the  past,  and  my  word  for  it,  you 
shall  have  some  flash  of  childhood  lighten  upon  you, 
that  was  unknown  to  your  busiest  thought  of  the 
morning. 

Let  a  week  go  by  ;  and  in  some  interval  of  care,  as 
you  recal  the  smile  of  a  mother,  or  some  pale  sister  who 
is  dead,  a  new  crowd  of  memories  will  rush  upon  your 
soul,  and  leave  their  traces  in  such  tears  as  will  make 
you  kinder  and  better  for  days  and  weeks.  Or  you 
shall  assist  at  some  neighbor  funeral,  where  the  Kttle 
dead  one — (like  one  you  have  seen  before) — shall  hold 
in  its  tiny  grasp — (as  you  have  taught  little  dead  hands 
to  do) — fresh  flowers,  laughing  flowers,  lying  lightly  on 


INTRODUCTORY.  17 

the  white  robe  of  the  dear  child — all   pale — cold — 
silent 

I  had  touched  iny  Aunt  Tabithy  :  she  had  dropped 
a  stitch  in  her  knitting.  I  believe  she  was  weeping. 

— Aye,  this  brain  of  ours  is  a  master- worker,  whose 
appliances  we  do  not  one  half  know  ;  and  this  heart  of 
ours  is  a  rare  storehouse,  furnishing  the  brain  with  new 
material  every  hour  of  our  lives ;  and  their  limits  we 
shall  not  know,  until  they  shall  end — together. 

Nor  is  there,  as  many  faint-hearts  imagine,  but  one 
phase  of  earnestness  in  our  life  of  feeling.  One  train 
of  deep  emotion  cannot  fill  up  the  heart :  it  radiates 
like  a  star,  God-ward  and  earth-ward.  It  spends  and 
reflects  all  ways.  Its  force  is  to  be  reckoned  not 
so  much  by  token,  as  by  capacity.  Facts  are  the 
poorest  and  most  slumberous  evidences  of  passion,  or 
of  affection.  True  feeling  is  ranging  everywhere ; 
whereas  your  actual  attachments  are  too  apt  to  be  tied 
to  sense. 

A  single  affection  may  indeed  be  true,  earnest  and 
absorbing ;  but  such  an  one  after  all,  is  but  a  type — 
and  if  the  object  be  worthy,  a  glorious  type — of  the 
great  book  of  feeling :  it  is  only  the  vapor  from  the 
cauldron  of  the  heart,  and  bears  no  deeper  relation  to 
its  exhaustless  sources,  than  the  letter  which  my  pen 
makes,  bears  to  the  thought  that  inspires  it, — or  than  a 
single  morning  strain  of  your  orioles  and  thrushes,bears 


18  DREAM-LIFE. 

to  that  wide  bird-chorus,  which  is  making  every  sun 
rise — a  worship,  and  every  grove — a  temple  ! 

My  Aunt  Tabithy  nodded. 

Nor  is  this  a  mere  bachelor  fling  against  constancy. 
I  can  believe,  Heaven  knows,  in  an  unalterable  and 
unflinching  affection,  which  neither  desires  nor  admit* 
the  prospect  of  any  other.  But  when  one  is  tasking  his 
brain  to  talk  for  his  heart, — when  he  is  not  writing 
positive  history,  but  only  making  mention  (as  it  were) 
of  the  heart's  capacities,  who  shall  say  that  he  has 
reached  the  fullness, — that  he  has  exhausted  the  stock 
of  its  feeling,  or  that  he  has  touched  its  highest  notes  ? 
It  is  true  there  is  but  one  heart  in  a  man  to  be  stirred  ; 
but  every  stir  creates  a  new  combination  of  feeling,  that 
like  the  turn  of  a  kaleidoscope  will  show  some  fresh 
color,  or  form. 

A  bachelor  to  be  sure  has  a  marvellous  advantage  in 
this ;  and  with  the  tenderest  influences  once  anchored 
in  the  bay  of  marriage,  there  is  little  disposition  to  scud 
off  under  each  pleasant  breeze  of  feeling.  Nay,  I  can 
even  imagine — perhaps  somewhat  captiously — that  after 
marriage,  feeling  would  become  a  habit,  a  rich  and 
holy  habit  certainly,  but  yet  a  habit,  which  weakens  the 
omnivorous  grasp  of  the  affections,  and  schools  one  to  a 
unity  of  emotion,  that  doubts  and  ignores  the  prompt 
ness  and  variety  of  impulse,  which  we  bachelor 


INTRODUCTORY.  19 

My  aunt  nodded  again. 

Could  it  be  that  she  approved   what  I  had  been 
saying  ?     I  hardly  knew. 

Poor  old  lady, — she  did  not  know  herself.    She  was 


IL 

WITH   MY   READER. 

HAVING  silenced  my  Aunt  Tabithy,  I  shall  be 
generous  enough  in  my  triumph,  to  offer  an 
explanatory  chat  to  my  reader. 

This  is  a  history  of  Dreams  ;  and  there  will  be  those 
who  will  sneer  at  such  a  history,  as  the  work  of  a 
dreamer.  So  indeed  it  is ;  and  you,  my  courteous 
reader,  are  a  dreamer  too  ! 

You  would  perhaps  like  to  find  your  speculations 
about  wealth,  marriage  or  influence,  called  by  some 
better  name  than  Dreams.  You  would  like  to  see  the 
history  of  them — if  written  at  all — baptized  at  the  font 
of  your  own  vanity,  with  some  such  title  as — life's 
cares,  or  life's  work.  If  there  had  been  a  philosophic 
naming  to  my  observations,  you  might  have  reckoned 


WITH    MY    READER.  21 

them  good :   as  it  is,  you  count  them  all   bald  and 
palpable  fiction. 

But  is  it  so  ?  I  care  not  how  matter  of  fact  you 
may  be,  you  have  in  your  own  life,  at  some  time, 
proved  the  very  truth  of  what  I  have  set  down: 
and  the  chances  are,  that  even  now,  gray  as  you  may 
be,  and  economic  as  you  may  be,  and  devotional  as  you 
pretend  to  be,  you  light  up  your  Sabbath  reflections 
with  just  such  dreams  of  wealth,  of  per  centages,  or  of 
family,  as  you  will  find  scattered  over  these  pages. 

I  am  not  to  be  put  aside  with  any  talk  about  stocks, 
and  duties,  and  respectability  :  all  these  though  very 
eminent  matters,  are  but  so  many  types  in  the  volume 
of  your  thought ;  and  your  eager  resolves  about  them, 
are  but  so  many  ambitious  waves,  breaking  up  from 
that  great  sea  of  dreamy  speculation,  that  has  spread 
over  your  soul,  from  its  first  start  into  the  realm  of 
CONSCIOUSNESS. 

No  man's  brain  is  so  dull,  and  no  man's  eye  so 
blind,  that  they  cannot  catch  food  for  dreams.  Each 
little  episode  of  life  is  full,  had  we  but  the  perception 
of  its  fullness.  There  is  no  such  thing  as  blank,  in  the 
world  of  thought.  Every  action  and  emotion  have 
their  development  growing  and  gaining  on  the  soul. 
Every  affection  has  its  tears  and  smiles.  Nay,  the  very 
material  world  is  full  of  meaning,  and  by  suggesting 


22  DREAM-LIFE. 

thought,  is   making   us   what   we   are,  and   what  we 
will  be. 

The  sparrow  that  is  twittering  on  the  edge  of  my 
balcony,  is  calling  up  to  me  this  moment,  a  world  of 
memories  that  reach   over  half  my  life  time,  and  a 
world  of  hope  that  stretches  farther  than  any  flight  of 
sparrows.     The  rose-tree  which  shades  his  mottled  coat 
is   full   of   buds   and   blossoms;   and   each   bud   and 
blossom  is  a  token  of  promise,  that  has  issues  covering 
life,  and  reaching  beyond  death.     The  quiet  sunshine 
beyond  the  flower  and  beyond  the  sparrow, — glistening 
upon  the   leaves,  and   playing   in   delicious  waves  of 
warmth  over  the  reeking  earth,  is  lighting  both  heart 
and  hope,  and   quickening  into   activity   a   thousand 
thoughts  of  what  has  been,  and  of  what  will  be.     The 
meadow   stretching    away   under   its    golden   flood — 
waving  with  grain,  and  with  the  feathery  blossoms  of 
the  grass,  and  golden  butter  cups,  and  white,  nodding 
daisies,   comes   to    my   eye   like  the   lapse   of   fading 
childhood, — studded   here  and  there  with  the  bright 
blossoms  of  joy,  crimsoned  all  over  with  the  flush  of 
health,  and  enamelled  with  memories  that  perfume  the 
soul.     The  blue  hills  beyond,  with  deep  blue  shadows 
gathered  in  their  bosom,  lie  before  me  like  mountains 
of  years,  over  which  I  shall  climb  through  shadows  to 
the  slope  of  Age,  and  go  down  to  the  deeper  shadows 
of  Death. 


WITH    MY    READER.  23 

Nor  are  dreams  without  their  variety,  whatever  your 
character  may  be.  I  care  not  how  much,  in  the  pride 
of  your  practical  judgment,  or  in  your  learned  fancies, 
you  may  sneer  at  any  dream  of  love,  and  reckon  it  all  a 
poet's  fiction :  there  are  times  when  such  dreams  come 
over  you  like  a  summer  cloud,  and  almost  stifle  you 
with  their  warmth. 

Seek  as  you  will  for  increase  of  lands  or  moneys,  and 
there  are  moments  when  a  spark  of  some  giant  mind 
will  flash  over  your  cravings,  and  wake  your  soul 
suddenly  to  a  quick,  and  yearning  sense  of  that 
influence  which  is  begotten  of  intellect ;  and  you  task 
your  dreams — as  I  have  copied  them  here — to  build 
before  you  the  pleasures  of  such  a  renown. 

I  care  not  how  worldly  you  may  be  :  there  are  times 
when  all  distinctions  seem  like  dust,  and  when  at  the 
graves  of  the  great,  you  dream  of  a  coming  country, 
where  your  proudest  hopes  shall  be  dimmed  forever. 

Married  or  unmarried,  young  or  old,  poet  or  worker, 
you  are  still  a  dreamer,  and  will  one  time  know,  and 
feel,  that  your  life  is  but  a  dream.  Yet  you  call  this 
fiction  :  you  stave  off  the  thoughts  in  print  which  come 
over  you  in  reverie.  You  will  not  admit  to  the  eye 
what  is  true  to  the  heart.  Poor  weakling,  and 
worldling, — you  are  not  strong  enough  to  face  your 
self! 

You  will  read  perhaps  with  smiles  :  you  will  possibly 


24  I)  RE  AM-LlP  E  . 

praise  the  ingenuity  :  you  will  talk,  with  a  lip  schooled 
against  the  slightest  quiver,  of  some  bit  of  pathos,  and 
say  that  it  is — well  done.  Yet  why  is  it  well  done  ? — 
only  because  it  is  stolen  from  your  very  life  and  heart. 
It  is  good,  because  it  is  so  common : — ingenious, 
because  it  is  so  honest : — well-conceived,  because  it  is 
not  conceived  at  all. 

There  are  thousands  of  mole-eyed  people,  who  count 
all  passion  in  print — a  lie  : — people  who  will  grow  into 
a  rage  at  trifles,  and  weep  in  the  dark,  and  love  in 
secret,  and  hope  without  mention,  and  cover  it  all 
under  the  cloak  of  what  they  call — propriety.  I  can 
see  before  me  now  some  gray-haired  old  gentleman, 
very  money-getting,  very  correct,  very  cleanly,  who 
reads  the  morning  paper  with  unction,  and  his  Bible 
with  determination  :  who  listens  to  dull  sermons  with 
patience,  and  who  prays  with  quiet  self-applause, — and 
yet  there  are  moments  belonging  to  his  life,  when  his 
curdled  affections  yearn  for  something  that  they  have 
not,  when  his  avarice  oversteps  all  the  command 
ments, — when  his  pride  builds  castles  full  of  splendor  ; 
and  yet  put  this  before  his  eye,  and  he  reads  with  the 
most  careless  air  in  the  world,  and  condemns  as  arrant 
fiction,  what  cannot  be  proved  to  the  elders. 

We  do  not  like  to  see  our  emotions  unriddled  :  it  is 
not  agreeable  to  the  proud  man  to  find  his  weaknesses 
exposed  :  it  is  shocking  to  the  disappointed  lover  to  see 


WITH    MY    READER.  2« 

his  heart  laid  bare :  it  is  a  great  grief  to  the  pining 
maiden  to  witness  the  exposure  of  her  loves.  We  do 
not  like  our  fancies  painted  :  we  do  not  contrive  them 
for  rehearsal :  our  dreams  are  private,  and  when  they 
aie  made  public,  we  disown  them. 

I  sometimes  think  that  I  must  be  a  very  honest 
fellow,  for  writing  down  those  fancies  which  every  one 
else  seems  afraid  to  whisper.  I  shall  at  least,  come  in 
for  my  share  of  the  odium  in  entertaining  such  fancies : 
indeed  I  shall  expect  the  charge  of  entertaining  them 
exclusively ;  and  shall  scarce  expect  to  find  a  single 
fellow-confessor,  unless  it  be  some  ^pure,  and  innocent 
thoughted  girl,  who  will  say  peccavi,  to — here  and 
there — a  single  rainbow  fancy. 

Well,  I  can  bear  it ;  but  in  bearing  it,  I  shall  be 
consoled  with  the  reflection  that  I  have  a  great 
company  of  fellow-sufferers,  who  lack  only  the  honesty 
to  tell  me  of  their  sympathy.  It  will  even  relieve  in 
no  small  degree  my  burden,  to  watch  the  effort  they 
will  take  to  conceal,  what  I  kave  so  boldly  divulged. 

Nature  is  very  much  the  same  thing  in  one  man,  that 
it  is  in  another :  and  as  I  have  already  said,  Feeling 
has  a  higher  truth  in  it,  than  circumstance.  Let  it 
only  be  touched  fairly  and  honestly,  and  the  heart  of 
humanity  answers ;  but  if  it  be  touched  foully  or 
one-sidedly,  you  may  find  here  and  there  a  lame-souled 
2 


26  D  R  E  A  M  -  L  I  F  E  . 

creature  who  will  give  response,  but  there  is  no  heart 
throb  in  it. 

Of  one  thing  I  am  sun. :— if  my  pictures  are  fair, 
worthy,  and  hearty,  you  must  see  it  in  tie  reading; 
but  if  they  are  forced  and  hard,  no  amount  of  kindness 
can  make  you  feel  their  truth  as  I  want  them  felt. 

I  make  no  self-praise  out  of  this  :  if  feeling  has  been 
honestly  set  down,  it  is  only  in  virtue  of  a  native 
impulse,  over  which  I  have  altogether  too  little  control ; 
but  if  it  is  set  down  badly,  I  have  wronged  Nature, 
and,  (as  Nature  is  kind)  I  have  wronged  myself. 

A  great  many  inquisitive  people  will,  I  do  not  doubt, 
be  asking  after  all  this  prelude,  if  my  pictures  are  true 
pictures?  The  question, — the  courteous  reader  will 
allow  me  to  say, — is  an  impertinent  one.  It  is  but  a 
shabby  truth  that  wants  an  author's  affidavit  to  make  it 
trust-worthy.  I  shall  not  help  my  story  by  any  such 
poor  support.  If  there  are  not  enough  elements  of 
truth,  honesty  and  nature  in  my  pictures,  to  make  then 
believed,  they  shall  have  no  oath  of  mine  to  tolster 
them  up. 

I  have  been  a  sufferer  in  this  way  before  now  ;  and  a 
little  book  that  I  had  the  whim  to  publish  a  year  since, 
has  been  set  down  by  many  as  an  arrant  piece  of 
imposture.  Claiming  sympathy  as  a  Bachelor,  I  have 
been  recklessly  set  down  as  a  cold,  undeserving  man  of 


WITH    MY    READER.  27 

family !  My  story  of  troubles  and  loves  has  been 
sneered  at,  as  the  sheerest  gammon. 

But  among  this  crowd  of  cold-blooded  critics,  it  was 
pleasant  to  hear  of  one  or  two  pursy  old  fellows  who 
railed  at  me,  for  winning  the  affections  of  a  sweet  Italian 
girl,  and  then  leaving  her  to  pine  in  discontent !  Yet 
in  the  face  of  this,  an  old  companion  of  mine  in  Rome, 
with  whom  I  accidentally  met  the  other  day, — wondered 
how  on  earth  I  could  have  made  so  tempting  a  story 
out  of  the  matronly  and  black-haired  spinster,  with 
whom  I  happened  to  be  quartered  in  the  Eternal  City ! 

I  shall  leave  my  critics  to  settle  such  difference? 
between  themselves  ;  and  consider  it  far  better  to  bear 
with  slanders  from  both  sides  of  the  house,  than  to 
bewray  the  pretty  tenderness  of  the  pursy  old  gentle 
men,  or  to  cast  a  doubt  upon  the  practical  testimony  of 
my  quondam  companion.  Both  give  me  high  and 
judicious  compliment — all  the  more  grateful  because 
only  half  deserved.  For  I  never  yet  was  conscious — 
alas,  that  the  confession  should  be  forced  from  me ! — 
of  winning  the  heart  of  any  maiden  whether  native,  of 
Italian ;  and  as  for  such  delicacy  of  imagination  as  to 
work  up  a  lovely  damsel  out  of  the  withered  remnant 
that  forty  odd  years  of  Italian  life  can  spare,  I  can 
assure  my  middle-aged  friends,  (and  it  may  serve  as  a 
caveat) — I  can  lay  no  claim  to  it  whatever. 

The  trouble  has  been,  that  those  who  have  believed 


28  DREAM -LiFE. 

one  passage  have  discredited  another ;  and  those  who 
have  sympathized  with  me  in  trifles,  have  deserted  me 
when  affairs  grew  earnest.  I  have  had  sympathy 
enough  with  my  married  griefs ;  but  when  it  came  to 

the  perplexing  torments  of  my  single  life not  a 

weeper  could  I  find  ! 

I  would  suggest  to  those  who  intend  to  believe  only 
half  of  my  present  book,  that  they  exercise  a  little 
discretion  in  their  choice.  I  am  not  fastidious  in  the 
matter ;  and  only  ask  them  to  believe  what  counts 
most  toward  the  goodness  of  humanity,  and  to  discredit 
— if  they  will  persist  in  it — only  what  tells  badly  for 
our  common  nature.  The  man  or  the  woman  who 
believes  well,  is  apt  to  work  well ;  and  Faith  is  as  much 
the  key  to  happiness  here,  as  it  is  the  key  to  happiness 
hereafter. 

I  have  only  one  thing  more  to  say,  before  I  get  upon 
my  story.  A  great  many  sharp-eyed  people,  who  have 
a  horror  of  light  reading — by  which  they  mean  what 
ever  does  not  make  mention  of  stocks,  cottons,  or  moral 
homilies, — will  find  much  fault  with  my  book  for  its 
ephemeral  character. 

I  am  sorry  that  I  cannot  gratify  such  :  homilies  are 
not  at  all  in  my  habit ;  and  it  does  seem  to  me  an 
exhausting  way  of  disposing  of  a  good  moral,  to 
hammer  it  down  to  a  single  point,  so  that  there  shall  be 
only  one  chance  of  driving  it  home.  For  my  own 


WITH    MT    READER.  29 

part,  I  count  it  a  great  deal  better  philosophy  to  fuse  it, 
and  rarify  it,  so  that  it  shall  spread  out  into  every 
crevice  of  a  story,  and  give  a  color  and  a  taste,  as  it 
were,  to  the  whole  mass. 

I  know  there  are  very  good  people,  who  if  they 
cannot  lay  their  finger  on  so  much  doctrine  set  down  in 
old  fashioned  phrase,  will  never  get  an  inkling  of  it  at 
all.  With  such  people,  goodness  is  a  thing  of  under 
standing,  more  than  of  feeling ;  and  all  their  morality 
has  its  action  in  the  brain. 

God  forbid  that  I  should  sneer  at  this  terrible 
infirmity,  which  Providence  has  seen  fit  to  inflict :  God 
forbid  too,  that  I  should  not  be  grateful  to  the  same 
kind  Providence,  for  bestowing  upon  others  among  his 
creatures  a  more  genial  apprehension  of  true  goodness, 
and  a  hearty  sympathy  with  eveiy  shade  of  "human 
kindness. 

But  in  all  this,  I  am  not  making  out  a  case  for  my 
own  correct  teaching,  or  insinuating  the  propriety  of 
my  tone.  I  shall  leave  the  book  in  this  regard,  to 
speak  for  itself;  and  whoever  feels  himself  growing 
worse  for  the  reading,  I  advise  to  lay  it  down.  It  will 
be  very  harmless  on  the  shelf,  however  it  may  be  in  the 
hand. 

I  shall  lay  no  claim  to  the  title  of  moralist,  teacher, 
or  romancist : — my  thoughts  start  pleasant  pictures  to 
my  mind ;  and  in  a  garrulous  humor,  I  put  my  finger 


30  DREAM -LIFE. 

in  the  button-hole  of  my  indulgent  friend,  and  tell  him 
some  of  them, — giving  him  leave  to  quit  me  whenever 
he  chooses. 

Or,  if  a  lady  is  my  listener,  let  her  fancy  me  only  an 
honest,  simple-hearted  fellow,  whose  familiarities  are  so 
innocent  that  she  can  pardon  them  ; — taking  her  hand 
in  his,  and  talking  on ; — sometimes  looking  in  her  eyes, 
and  then  looking  into  the  sunshine  for  relief; — some 
times  prosy  with  narrative,  and  then  sharpening  up  my 
matter  with  a  few  touches  of  honest  pathos ; — let  her 
imagine  this,  I  say,  and  we  may  become  the  most 
excellent  friends  in  the  world. 


Spring; 

COr 
53reams  of 


DREAMS  OF  BOYHOOD. 


SPRING. 

THE  old  chroniclers  made  the  year  begin  in  the 
season  of  frosts ;  and  they  have  launched  us 
upon  the  current  of  the  months,  from  the  snowy  banks 
of  January.  I  love  better  to  count  time,  from  spring 
to  spring ;  it  seems  to  me  far  more  cheerful,  to  reckon 
the  year  by  blossoms,  than  by  blight. 

Bernardin  de  St.  Pierre,  in  his  sweet  story  of  Vir 
ginia,  makes  the  bloom  of  the  cocoa- tree,  or  the  growth 
of  the  banana,  a  yearly  and  a  loved  monitor  of  the 
passage  of  her  life.  How  cold  and  cheerless  in  the 
comparison,  would  be  the  icy  chronology  of  the  North  ; 
So  many  years  have  I  seen  the  lakes  locked, 

and  the  foliage  die  I 
2* 


34  DREAM  -LIFE. 

The  budding  and  blooming  of  spring,  seem  to  be 
long  properly  to  tlie  opening  of  the  months.  It  is  the 
season  of  the  quickest  expansion,  of  the  warmest  blood, 
of  the  readiest  growth ;  it  is  the  boy-age  of  the  year. 
The  birds  sing  in  chorus  in  the  spring — just  as  chil 
dren  prattle  ;  the  brooks  run  full — like  the  overflow  of 
young  hearts  ;  the  showers  drop  easily — as  young  tears 
flow ;  and  the  whole  sky  is  as  capricious  as  the  mind 
of  a  boy. 

Between  tears  and  smiles,  the  year,  like  the  child, 
struggles  into  the  warmth  of  life.  The  old  year, — say 
what  the  chronologists  will, — lingers  upon  the  very  lap 
of  spring ;  and  is  only  fairly  gone,  when  the  blossoms 
of  April  have  strewn  their  pall  of  glory  upon  his  tomb, 
and  the  blue-birds  have  chanted  his  requiem. 

It  always  seems  to  me  as  if  an  access  of  life  came 
with  the  melting  of  the  winter's  snows  ;  and  as  if  every 
rootlet  of  grass  that  lifted  its  first  green  blade  from  the 
matted  debris  of  the  old  year's  decay,  bore  my  spirit 
upon  it,  nearer  to  the  largess  of  Heaven. 

I  love  to  trace  the  break  of  spring  step  by  step  :  I 
love  even  those  long  rain-storms  that  sap  the  icy  for 
tresses  of  the  lingering  winter, — that  melt  the  snows 
upon  the  hills,  and  swell  the  mountain-brooks ; — that 
make  the  pools  heave  up  their  glassy  cerements  of 
ice,  and  hurry  down  the  crashing  fragments  into  the 
wastes  of  ocean 


S  P  u  i  N  i .  35 

I  love  the  gentle  thaws  that  you  can  trace,  day  by 
day,  by  the  stained  snow-banks,  shrinking  from  the 
grass  ;  and  by  the  gentle  drip  of  the  cottage-eaves.  I 
love  to  search  out  the  sunny  slopes  by  a  southern  wall, 
where  the  reflected  sun  does  double  duty  to  the  earth, 
and  where  the  frail  anemone,  or  the  faint  blush  of  the 
arbutus,  in  the  midst  of  the  bleak  March  atmosphere, 
will  touch  your  heart,  like  a  hope  of  Heaven,  in  a  field 
of  graves  !  Later  come  those  soft,  smoky  days,  when 
the  patches  of  winter  grain  show  green  under  the 
shelter  of  leafless  woods,  and  the  last  snow-drifts,  re 
duced  to  shrunken  skeletons  of  ice,  lie  upon  the  slope 
of  northern  hills,  leaking  away  their  life. 

Then,  the  grass  at  your  door  grows  into  the  color  of 
the  sprouting  grain,  and  the  buds  upon  the  lilacs  swell, 
and  burst.  The  peaches  bloom  upon  the  wall,  and  the 
plums  wear  bodices  of  white.  The  sparkling  oriole 
picks  string  for  his  hammock  on  the  sycamore,  and  the 
sparrows  twitter  in  pairs.  The  old  elms  throw  down 
their  dingy  flowers,  and  color  their  spray  with  green ; 
and  the  brooks,  where  you  throw  your  worm  or  the 
minnow,  float  down  whole  fleets  of  the  crimson  blos 
soms  of  the  maple.  Finally,  the  oaks  step  into  the 
opening  quadrille  of  spring,  with  greyish  tufts  of  a 
modest  verdure,  which,  by  and  by,  will  be  long  and 
glossy  leaves.  The  dog-wood  pitches  his  broad,  white 
tent,  in  the  edge  of  the  forest ;  the  dandelions  lie 


36  DREAM-LIFE. 

along  the  hillocks,  like  stars  in  a  sky  of  green ;  and 
the  wild  cherry,  growing  in  all  the  hedge-rows,  without 
other  culture  than  God's,  lifts  up  to  Him,  thankfully, 
its  tremulous  white  fingers. 

Amid  all  this,  come  the  rich  rains  of  spring.  The 
affections  of  a  boy  grow  up  with  tears  to  water  them  ; 
and  the  year  blooms  with  showers.  But  the  clouds 
hover  over  an  April  sky,  timidly — like  shadows  upon 
innocence.  The  showers  come  gently,  and  drop  daintily 
to  the  earth, — with  now  and  then  a  glimpse  of  sun 
shine  to  make  the  drops  bright — like  so  many  tears  of 

j°y- 

The  rain  of  winter  is  cold,  and  it  comes  in  bitter 
scuds  that  blind  you ;  but  the  rain  of  April  steals 
upon  you  coyly,  half  reluctantly, — yet  lovingly — like 
the  steps  of  a  bride  to  the  Altar. 

It  does  not  gather  like  the  storm-clouds  of  winter, 
grey  and  heavy  along  the  horizon,  and  creep  with 
subtle  and  insensible  approaches  (like  age)  to  the  very 
zenith ;  but  there  are  a  score  of  white-winged  swim 
mers  afloat,  that  your  eye  has  chased,  as  you  lay 
fatigued  with  the  delicious  languor  of  an  April  sun  ; — 
nor  have  you  scarce  noticed  that  a  little  bevy  of  those 
floating  clouds  had  grouped  together  in  a  sombre 
company.  But  presently,  you  see  across  the  fields,  the 
dark  grey  streaks  stretching  like  lines  of  mists,  from  the 
gre«n  bosom  cf  the  valley,  to  that  spot  of  sky  where  the 


SPRING.  87 

company  of  clouds  is  loitering ;  and  with  an  easy 
shifting  of  the  helm,  the  fleet  of  swimmers  come 
drifting  over  you,  and  drop  their  burden  into  the  danc 
ing  pools,  and  make  the  flowers  glisten,  and  the  eaves 
drip  with  their  crystal  bounty. 

The  cattle  linger  still,  cropping  the  new-come  grass  ; 
and  childhood  laughs  joyously  at  the  warm  rain  ; — or 
under  the  cottage  roof,  catches  with  eager  ear,  the  pat 
ter  of  its  fall. 

And  with  that  patter  on  the  roof, — so  like  to 

the  patter  of  childish  feet — my  story  of  boyish  dreams 
shall  begin. 


I. 

RAIN    IN    THE    GARRET. 

IT  is  an  old  garret  with  big,  brown  rafters ;  and  the 
boards  between  are  stained  darkly  with  the  rain 
storms  of  fifty  years.  And  as  the  sportive  April 
shower  quickens  its  flood,  it  seems  as  if  its  torrents 
would  come  dashing  through  the  shingles,  upon  you, 
and  upon  your  play.  But  it  will  not ;  for  you  know 
that  the  old  roof  is  strong  ;  and  that  it  has  kept  you, 
and  all  that  love  you,  for  long  years  from  the  rain,  and 
from  the  cold :  you  know  that  the  hardest  storms  of 
winter  will  only  make  a  little  oozing  leak,  that  trickles 
down  the  brown  stains, — like  tears. 

You  love  that  old  garret  roof ;  and  you  nestle  down 
under  its  slope,  with  a  sense  of  its  protecting  power 
that  no  castle  walls  can  give  to  your  maturer  years. 


RAIN    IN    THE    GARRET.  39 

Aye,  your  heart  clings  in  boyhood  to  the  roof-tree  of 
the  old  family  garret,  with  a  grateful  affection,  and  an 
earnest  confidence,  that  the  after  years — whatever  may 
be  their  successes,  or  their  honors — can  never  re-create. 
Under  the  roof-tree  of  his  home,  the  boy  feels  SAFE  : 
and  where,  in  the  whole  realm  of  life,  with  its  bitter 
toils,  and  its  bitterer  temptations,  will  he  feel  safe 


But  this  you  do  not  know.  It  seems  only  a  grand 
old  place  ;  and  it  is  capital  fun  to  search  in  its  corners, 
and  drag  out  some  bit  of  quaint  old  furniture,  with  a 
leg  broken,  and  lay  a  cushion  across  it,  and  fix  your 
reins  upon  the  lion's  claws  of  the  feet,  and  then — 
gallop  away !  And  you  offer  sister  Nelly  a  chance,  if 
she  will  be  good;  and  throw  out  very  patronizing 
words  to  little  Charlie,  who  is  mounted  upon  a  much 
humbler  horse, — to  wit,  a  decrepid  nursery-chair, — as 
he  of  right  should  be,  since  he  is  three  years  your 
junior. 

I  know  no  nobler  forage  ground  for  a  romantic,  ven 
turesome,  mischievous  boy,  than  the  garret  of  an  old 
family  mansion,  on  a  day  of  storm.  It  is  a  perfect 
field  of  chivalry.  The  heavy  rafters,  the  dashing  rain, 
the  piles  of  spare  mattresses  to  carouse  upon,  the 
big  trunks  to  hide  in,  the  old  white  coats  and  hats 
hanging  in  obscure  corners,  like  ghosts — are  great! 
And  it  is  so  far  away  from  tjie  old  lady,  who  keeps 


40  DREAM-LIFE. 

rule  in  the  nursery,  that  there  is  no  possible  risk  of 
a  scolding,  for  twisting  off  the  fringe  of  the  rug.  There 
is  no  baby  in  the  garret  to  wake  up.  There  is  no 
*  company'  in  the  garret  to  be  disturbed  by  the  noise. 
There  is  no  crotchety  old  Uncle,  or  Grand-Ma,  with 
their  everlasting — "  Boys — boys !" — and  then  a  look  of 
such  horror ! 

There  is  great  fun  in  groping  through  a  tall  barrel 
of  books  and  pamphlets,  on  the  look-out  for  startling 
pictures  ;  and  there  are  chestnuts  in  the  garret,  drying, 
which  you  have  discovered  on  a  ledge  of  the  chimney ; 
and  you  slide  a  few  into  your  pocket,  and  munch  them 
quietly, — giving  now  and  then  one  to  Nelly,  and 
begging  her  to  keep  silent ; — for  you  have  a  great  fear 
of  its  being  forbidden  fruit. 

Old  family  garrets  have  their  stock,  as  I  said,  of 
cast-away  clothes,  of  twenty  years  gone  by ;  and  it  is 
rare  sport  to  put  them  on;  buttoning  in  a  pillow  or 
two  for  the  sake  of  good  fulness  ;  and  then  to  trick  out 
Nelly  in  some  strange-shaped  head-gear,  and  old- 
fashioned  brocade  petticoat  caught  up  with  pins  ;  and 
in  such  guise,  to  steal  cautiously  down  stairs,  and  creep 
sh'ly  into  the  sitting-room, — half  afraid  of  a  scolding, 
and  very  sure  of  good  fun  ; — trying  to  look  very  sober, 
and  yet  almost  ready  to  die  with  the  laugh  that  you 
know  you  will  make.  And  your  mother  tries  to  look 
harshly  at  little  Nelly  for  putting  on  her  grandmother's 


RAIN    IN    THE    GARRET.  41 

best  bonnet;  but  Nelly's  laughing  eyes  forbid  it  ut 
terly  ;  and  the  mother  spoils  all  her  scolding  with  a 
perfect  shower  of  kisses. 

After  this,  you  go  marching,  very  stately,  into  the 
nursery ;  and  utterly  amaze  the  old  nurse ;  and  make 
a  deal  of  wonderment  for  the  staring,  half-frightened 
baby,  who  drops  his  rattle,  and  makes  a  bob  at  you,  as 
if  he  would  jump  into  your  waistcoat  pocket. 

But  you  grow  tired  of  this  ;  you  tire  even  of  the 
swing,  and  of  the  pranks  of  Charlie  ;  and  you  glide 
away  into  a  corner,  with  an  old,  dog's-eared  copy  of 
Robinson  Crusoe.  And  you  grow  heart  and  soul  into 
the  story,  until  you  tremble  for  the  poor  fellow  with  his 
guns,  behind  the  palisade ;  and  are  yourself  half  dead 
with  fright,  when  you  peep  cautiously  over  the  hill 
with  your  glass,  and  see  the  cannibals  at  their  orgies 
around  the  fire. 

Yet,  after  all,  you  think  the  old  fellow  must  have 
had  a  capital  time,  with  a  whole  island  to  himself;  and 
you  think  you  would  like  such  a  time  yourself,  if  only 
Nelly,  and  Charlie,  could  be  there  with  you.  But  this 
thought  does  not  come  till  afterward ;  for  the  time,  you 
are  nothing  but  Crusoe ;  you  are  living  in  his  cave 
with  Poll  the  parrot,  and  are  looking  out  for  your 
goats,  and  man  Friday. 

You  dream  what  a  nice  thing  it  would  be,  for  you  to 
slip  away  some  pleasant  morning— not  to  York,  03 


42  DREAM -LiFE. 

young  Crusoe  did,  but  to  New  York, — and  take  pas 
sage  as  a  sailor ;  and  how,  if  they  knew  you  were 
going,  there  would  be  such  a  world  of  good-byes  ;  and 
how,  if  they  did  not  know  it,  there  would  be  such  a 
world  of  wonder ! 

And  then  the  sailor's  dress  would  be  altogether  such 
a  jaunty  affair  ;  and  it  would  be  such  rare  sport  to  lie 
off  upon  the  yards  far  aloft,  as  you  have  seen  sailors  in 
pictures,  looking  out  upon  the  blue  and  tumbling  sea. 
No  thought  now  in  your  boyish  dreams,  of  sleety 
storms,  and  cables  stiffened  with  ice,  and  crashing 
spars,  and  great  ice-bergs  towering  fearfully  arounr 
you ! 

You  would  have  better  luck  than  even  Crusoe ;  you 
would  save  a  compass,  and  a  Bible,  and  stores  of 
hatchets,  and  the  captain's  dog,  and  great  puncheons 
of  sweetmeats  (which  Crusoe  altogether  overlooked)  ; 
and  you  would  save  a  tent  or  two,  which  you  could  set 
up  on  the  shore,  and  an  American  flag,  and  a  small 
piece  of  cannon,  which  you  could  fire  as  often  as  you 
liked.  At  night,  you  would  sleep  in  a  tree — though 
you  wonder  how  Crusoe  did  it, — and  would  say  the 
prayers  you  had  been  taught  to  say  at  home,  and  fall 
to  sleep, — dreaming  of  Nelly  and  Charlie. 

At  sunrise,  or  thereabouts,  you  would  come  down, 
feeling  very  much  refreshed  ;  and  make  a  very  nice 
breakfast  off  of  smoked  herring  and  sea-bread,  with  a  lit- 


RAIN    IN.   THE    GARRET.  43 

tie  currant  jam,  and  a  few  oranges.  After  this  you 
would  haul  ashore  a  chest  or  two  of  the  sailors'  clothes, 
and  putting  a  few  large  jack-knives  in  your  pocket, 
would  take  a  stroll  over  the  island,  and  dig  a  cave 
somewhere,  and  roll  in  a  cask  or  two  of  sea-bread. 
And  you  fancy  yourself  growing  after  a  time  very  tall 
and  corpulent,  and  wearing  a  magnificent  goat-skin 
cap,  trimmed  with  green  ribbons,  and  set  off  with 
a  plume.  You  think  you  would  have  put  a  few  more 
guns  in  the  palisade  than  Crusoe  did,  and  charged 
them  with  a  little  more  grape. 

After  a  long  while,  you  fancy  a  ship  would  arrive, 
which  would  cany  you  back ;  and  you  count  upon 
very  great  surprise  on  the  part  of  your  father,  and  little 
Nelly,  as  you  march  up  to  the  door  of  the  old  family 
mansion,  with  plenty  of  gold  in  your  pocket,  and 
a  small  bag  of  cocoanuts  for  Charlie,  and  with  a  great 
deal  of  pleasant  talk,  about  your  island,  far  away  in 
the  South  Seas. 

Or,  perhaps  it  is  not  Crusoe  at  all,  that  your 

eyes  and  your  heart  cling  to,  but  only  some  little  story 
about  Paul  and  Virginia ; — that  dear  little  Virginia ! 
how  many  teare  have  been  shed  over  her — not  in  gar 
rets  only,  or  by  boys  only ! 

You  would  have  liked  Virginia — you  know  you 
would  ;  but  you  perfectly  hate  the  beldame  aunt,  who 
sent  for  her  to  come  to  France  ;  you  think  she  must 


44  DREAM-LIFE. 

have  been  like  the  old  school-mistress,  who  occasionally 
boxes  your  ears  with  the  cover  of  the  spelling-book,  or 
makes  you  wear  one  of  the  girls'  bonnets,  that  smells 
strongly  of  paste-board,  and  calico. 

As  for  black  Domingue,  you  think  he  was  a  capital 
old  fellow  ;  and  you  think  more  of  him,  and  his  bana 
nas,  than  you  do  of  the  bursting,  throbbing  heart  of 
poor  Paul.  As  yet,  Dream-life  does  not  take  hold  on 
love.  A  little  maturity  of  heart  is  wanted,  to  make  up 
what  the  poets  call  sensibility.  If  love  should  come  to 
be  a  dangerous,  chivalric  matter,  as  in  the  case  of  Helen 
Mar  and  Wallace,  you  can  very  easily  conceive  of  it, 
and  can  take  hold  of  all  the  little  accessories  of  male 
costume,  and  embroidering  of  banners ;  but  as  for  pure 
sentiment,  such  as  lies  in  the  sweet  story  of  Bernardin 
de  St.  Pierre,  it  is  quite  beyond  you. 

The  rich,  soft  nights,  in  which  one  might  doze  in  his 
hammock,  watching  the  play  of  the  silvery  moon 
beams  upon  the  orange  leaves,  and  upon  the  waves, 
you  can  understand  ;  and  you  fall  to  dreaming  of  that 
lovely  Isle  of  France ;  and  wondering  if  Virginia  did 
not  perhaps  have  some  relations  on  the  island,  who 
raise  pine-apples,  and  such  sort  of  things,  still  ? 

And  so,  with  your  head  upon  your  hand,  in 

your  quiet  garret  corner,  over  some  such  beguiling 
story,  your  thought  leans  away  from  the  book,  into 
vour  own  dreamv  cruise  over  the  sea  of  life. 


11. 

SCHOOL   DREAMS. 

IT  is  a  proud  thing  to  go  out  from  under  the  realm 
of  a  school-mistress,  and  to  be  enrolled  in  a 
company  of  boys  who  are  under  the  guidance  of  a 
master.  It  is  one  of  the  earliest  steps  of  worldly  pride, 
which  has  before  it  a  long  and  tedious  ladder  of  ascent. 
Even  the  advice  of  the  old  mistress,  and  the  nine-penny 
book  that  she  thrusts  into  your  hand  as  a  parting  gift, 
pass  for  nothing ;  and  her  kiss  of  adieu,  if  she  tenders  it 
in  the  sight  of  your  fellows,  will  call  up  an  angry  rush 
of  blood  to  the  cheek,  that  for  long  years,  shall  drown 
all  sense  of  its  kindness. 

You  have  looked  admiringly  many  a  day  upon  the 
tall  fellows  who  play  at  the  door  of  Dr.  BidloVs 
school :  you  have  locked  with  reverence,  second  only 


40  DREAM-LIFE. 

to  that  felt  for  the  old  village  church,  upon  its  dark- 
looking  heavy  brick  walls.  It  seemed  to  be  redolent  of 
learning;  and  stopping  at  times,  to  gaze  upon  the 
gallipots  and  broken  retorts,  at  the  second  story- 
window,  you  have  pondered,  in  your  boyish  way, 
upon  the  inscrutable  wonders  of  Science,  and  the 
ineffable  dignity  of  Dr.  Bidlow's  brick  school ! 

Dr.  Bidlow  seems  to  you  to  belong  to  a  race  of 
giants ;  and  yet  he  is  a  spare,  thin  man,  with  a  hooked 
nose,  a  large,  flat,  gold  watch-key,  a  crack  in  his  voice, 
a  wig,  and  very  dirty  wristbands.  Still  you  stand 
in  awe  at  the  mere  sight  of  him; — an  awe  that  is 
very  much  encouraged  by  a  report  made  to  you  by  a 
small  boy,— that  "  Old  Bid"  keeps  a  large  ebony  rulei 
in  his  desk.  You  are  amazed  at  the  small  boy's 
audacity :  it  astonishes  you  that  any  one  who  had  ever 
smelt  the  strong  fumes  of  sulphur  and  ether  in  the 
Doctor's  room,  and  had  seen  him  turn  red  vinegar 
blue,  (as  they  say  he  does)  should  call  him  "  Old 
Bid!" 

You,  however,  come  very  little  under  his  control: 
you  enter  upon  the  proud  life,  in  the  sir  ill  boyV 
department, — under  the  dominion  of  the  English 
master.  He  is  a  different  personage  from  Dr  Bidlow : 
he  is  a  dapper,  little  man,  who  twinkles  his  eye 
in  a  peculiar  fashion,  and  who  has  a  way  of  marching 
about  the  school-room  with  his  hands  crossed  behind 


SCHOOL-DREAMS.  47 

him,  giving  a  playful  flirt  to  his  coat-tails.  He  wears  a 
pen  tucked  behind  his  ear  :  his  hair  is  carefully  set  up 
at  the  sides,  and  upon  the  top,  to  conceal  (as  you  think 
later  in  Me)  his  diminutive  height ;  and  he  steps  very 
springily  around  behind  the  benches,  glancing  now  and 
then  at  the  books, — cautioning  one  scholar  about  his 
dogs-ears,  and  startling  another  from  a  doze,  by  a  yery 
loud  and  odious  snap  of  his  forefinger  upon  the  boy's 
head. 

At  other  times,  he  sticks  a  hand  in  the  armlet  of  his 
waistcoat :  he  brandishes  in  the  other  a  thickish  bit  of 
smooth  cherry-wood, — sometimes  dressing  his  hair 
withal ;  and  again,  giving  his  head  a  slight  scratch 
behind  the  ear,  while  he  takes  occasion  at  the  same 
time,  for  an  oblique  glance  at  a  fat  boy  in  the  corner, 
who  is  reaching  down  from  his  seat  after  a  little  paper 
pellet,  that  has  just  been  discharged  at  him  from  some 
unknown  quarter.  The  master  steals  very  cautiously 
and  quickly  to  the  rear  of  the  stooping  boy, — 
dreadfully  exposed  by  his  unfortunate  position, — and 
inflicts  a  stinging  blow.  A  weak-eyed  little  scholar  on 
the  next  bench  ventures  a  modest  titter ;  at  which  the 
assistant  makes  a  significant  motion  with  his  ruler — 
on  the  seat,  as  it  were,  of  an  imaginary  pair  of 
pantaloons, — which  renders  the  weak-eyed  boy  on  a 
sudden,  very  insensible  to  the  recent  joke. 

You.  meantime,  profess  to  be  very  much  engrossed 


48  D  R  E  A  M  -  L  I  F  E  . 

with  your  grammar — turned  up-side  down  :  you  think 
it  must  have  hurt ;  and  are  only  sorry  that  it  did  not 
happen  to  a  tall,  dark-faced  boy  who  cheated  you  in  a 
swop  of  jack-knives.  You  innocently  think  that  he 
must  be  a  very  bad  boy ;  and  fancy — aided  by  a 
suggestion  of  the  old  nurse  at  home,  on  the  same 
point, — that  he  will  one  day  come  to  the  gallows. 

There  is  a  platform  on  one  side  of  the  school-room, 
where  the  teacher  sits  at  a  little  red  table,  and  they 
have  a  tradition  among  the  boys,  that  a  pin  properly 
bent,  was  one  day  put  into  the  chair  of  the  English 
master,  and  that  he  did  not  wear  his  hand  in  the 
armlet  of  his  waistcoat,  for  two  whole  days  thereafter. 
Yet  his  air  of  dignity  seems  proper  enough  in  a  man 
of  such  erudition,  and  such  grasp  of  imagination,  as  he 
must  possess.  For  he  can  quote  poetry, — some  of  the 
big  scholars  have  heard  him  do  it : — he  can  parse  the 
whole  of  Paradise  Lost;  and  he  can  cipher  in  Long 
Division,  and  the  Rule  of  Three,  as  if  it  was  all 
Simple  Addition  ;  and  then — such  a  hand  as  he  writes, 
and  such  a  superb  capital  B  !  It  is  hard  to  understand 
how  he  does  it. 

Sometimes,  lifting  the  lid  of  your  desk,  where  you 
pretend  to  be  very  busy  with  your  papers,  you  steal  the 
reading  of  some  brief  passage  of  Lazy  Lawrence,  or  of 
the  Hungarian  Brothers,  and  muse  about  it  for  hours 
afterward,  to  the  great  detriment  of  your  ciphering ; 


SCHOOL    DREAMS.  49 

or,  deeply  lost  in  the  story  of  the  Scottish  Chiefs,  you 
fall  to  comparing  such  villains  as  Monteith  with  the 
stout  boys  who  tease  you ;  and  you  only  wish  they 
could  come  within  reach  of  the  fierce  Kirkpatrick's 
claymore. 

But  you  are  frighted  out  of  this  stolen  reading  by  a 
circumstance  that  stirs  your  young  blood  very  strangely. 
The  master  is  looking  very  sourly  on  a  certain  morning, 
and  has  caught  sight  of  the  little  weak-eyed  boy  over 
beyond  you,  reading  Roderick  Random.  He  sends 
out  for  a  long  birch  rod,  and  having  trimmed  off  the 
leaves  carefully, — with  a  glance  or  two  in  your  direction, 
— he  marches  up  behind  the  bench  of  the  poor 
culprit, — who  turns  deathly  pale, — grapples  him  by  the 
collar,  drags  him  out  over  the  desks,  his  limbs  dangling 
in  a  shocking  way  against  the  sharp  angles,  and  having 
him  fairly  in  the  middle  of  the  room,  clinches  his  rod 
with  a  new,  and,  as  it  seems  to  you,  a  very  sportive 
grip. 

You  shudder  fearfully. 

"  Please  don't  whip  me,"  says  the  boy  whimpering. 

"Aha!"  says  the  smirking  pedagogue,  bringing 
down  the  stick  with  a  quick,  sharp  cut, — "  you  don't 
like  it,  eh?" 

The  poor  fellow  screams,  and   struggles  to  escape ; 
but  the   blows  come  faster   and   thicker.     The  blood 
tingles  in  your  finger  ends  with  indignation. 
3 


50  DREAM -LiFE. 

"  Please  don't  strike  me  again,"  says  the  boy  sobbing 
and  taking  breath  as  he  writhes  about  the  legs  of  the 
master  ; — "  I  won't  read  another  time." 

"  Ah,  you  won't,  sir — won't  you  ?  I  don't  mean  you 
shall,  sir,"  and  the  blows  fall  thick  and  fast, — until 
the  poor  fellow  crawls  back,  utterly  crest-fallen  and 
heart-sick,  to  sob  over  his  books. 

You  grow  into  a  sudden  boldness :  you  wish  you 
were  only  large  enough  to  beat  the  master  :  you  know 
such  treatment  would  make  you  miserable  :  you 
shudder  at  the  thought  of  it :  you  do  not  believe  he 
would  dare  :  you  know  the  other  boy  has  got  no 
father.  This  seems  to  throw  a  new  light  upon  the 
matter,  but  it  only  intensifies  your  indignation.  You 
are  sure  that  no  father  would  suffer  it ;  or  if  you 
thought  so,  it  would  sadly  weaken  your  love  for  him. 
You  pray  Heaven  that  it  may  never  be  bought  to  such 
proof. 

Let  a  boy  once  distrust  ihe  love  or  the  tender 
ness  of  his  parents,  and  the  last  resort  of  his  yearning 
affections — so  far  as  the  world  goes — is  utterly  gone. 
Jle  is  in  the  sure  road  to  a  bitter  fate.  His  heart  will 
take  on  a  hard  iron  covering,  that  will  flash  out  plenty 
of  fire  in  his  after  contact  with  the  world,  but  it  will 
never — never  melt ! 

There  are  some  tall  trees  that  overshadow  an  angle 
of  the  school-house  ;  and  the  larger  scholars  play  some 


SCHOOL    DREAMS.  51 

very  surprising  gymnastic  tricks  upon  their  lower  limbs : 
one  boy  for  instance,  will  hang  for  an  incredible  length 
of  time  by  his  feet,  with  his  head  down  ;  and  when  you 
tell  Charlie  of  it  at  night,  with  such  additions  as  your 
boyish  imagination  can  contrive,  the  old  nurse  is 
shocked,  and  states  very  gravely  that  it  is  dangerous ; 
and  that  the  blood  all  runs  to  the  head,  and  sometimes 
bursts  out  of  the  eyes  and  mouth.  You  look  at  that 
particular  boy  with  astonishment  afterward  ;  and  expect 
to  see  him  some  day  burst  into  bleeding  from  the  nose 
and  ears,  and  flood  the  school-room  benches. 

In  time,  however,  you  get  to  performing  some 
modest  experiments  yourself  upon  the  very  lowest 
limbs, — taking  care  to  avoid  the  observation  of  the 
larger  boys,  who  else  might  laugh  at  you  :  you 
especially  avoid  the  notice  of  one  stout  fellow  in  pea- 
green  breeches,  who  is  a  sort  of  '  bully '  among  the 
small  boys,  and  who  delights  in  kicking  your  marbles 
about,  very  accidentally.  He  has  a  fashion  too  of 
twisting  his  handkerchief  into  what  he  calls  a  '  snapper,' 
with  a  knot  at  the  end,  and  cracking  at  you  with  it, 
very  much  to  the  irritation  of  your  spirit^  and  of  your 


Sometimes,  when  he  has  brought  you  to  an  angry 
burst  of  teai*s,  he  will  verv  graciously  force  upon  you 
the  handkerchief,  and  insist  upon  your  cracking  him  in 
return ;  which,  as  you  know  nothing  about  his  effective 


62  DREAM-LIFE. 

method  of  making  the  knot  bite,  is  a  very  harmless 
proposal  on  his  part. 

But  you  have  still  stronger  reason  to  remember  that 
boy.  There  are  trees,  as  I  said,  near  the  school ;  and 
you  get  the  reputation  after  a  time  of  a  good  climber. 
One  day  you  are  well  in  the  tops  of  the  trees,  and  being 
dared  by  the  boys  below,  you  venture  higher — higher 
than  any  boy  has  ever  gone  before.  You  feel  very 
proudly ;  but  just  then  catch  sight  of  the  sneering  face 
of  your  old  enemy  of  the  snapper ;  and  he  dares  you  to 
go  upon  a  limb  that  he  points  out. 

The  rest  say, — for  you  hear  them  plainly — "  it  won't 
bear  him."  And  Frank,  a  great  friend  of  yours,  shouts 
loudly  to  you, — not  to  try. 

"  Pho,"  says  your  tormentor, — "  the  little  coward  !" 

If  you  could  whip  him,  you  would  go  down  the  tree 
and  do  it  willingly :  as  it  is,  you  cannot  let  him 
triumph  :  so  you  advance  cautiously  out  upon  the 
limb :  it  bends  and  sways  fearfully  with  your  weight : 
presently  it  cracks  :  you  try  to  return,  but  it  is  too  late : 
you  feel  yourself  going : — your  mind  flashes  home — 
over  your  life — your  hope — your  fate,  like  lightning  : 
then  comes  a  sense  of  dizziness, — a  succession  of  quick 
blows,  and  a  dull,  heavy  crash  ! 

You  are  conscious  of  nothing  again,  until  you  find 
yourself  in  the  great  hall  of  the  school,  covered  with 


SCHOOL    DREAMS.  53 

blood,  the  old  Doctor  standing  over  you  with  a  phial, 
and  Frank  kneeling  by  you,  and  holding  your  shattered 
arm,  which  has  been  broken  by  the  fall. 

After  this,  come  those  long,  weary  days  of  confine 
ment,  when  you  lie  still,  through  all  the  hours  of  noon, 
looking  out  upon  the  cheerful  sunshine,  only  through 
the  windows  of  your  little  room.  Yet  it  seems  a  grand 
thing  to  have  the  whole  household  attendant  upon  you. 
The  doors  are  opened  and  shut  softly,  and  they  all  step 
noiselessly  about  your  chamber ;  and  when  you  groan 
with  pain,  you  are  sure  of  meeting  sad,  sympathizing 
looks.  Your  mother  will  step  gently  to  your  side  and 
lay  her  cool,  white  hand  upon  your  forehead ;  and  little 
Nelly  will  gaze  at  you  from  the  foot  of  your  bed  with 
a  sad  earnestness,  and  with  teal's  of  pity  in  her  soft 
hazel  eyes.  And  afterward,  as  your  pain  passes  away, 
she  will  bring  you  her  prettiest  books,  and  fresh 
flowers,  and  whatever  she  knows  you  will  love. 

But  it  is  dreadful,  when  you  wake  at  night,  from 
your  feverish  slumber,  and  see  nothing  but  the  spectral 
shadows  that  the  sick-lamp  upon  the  hearth  throws 
aslant  the  walls ;  and  hear  nothing  but  the  heavy 
breathing  of  the  old  nurse  in  the  easy  chair,  and 
the  ticking  of  the  clock  upon  the  mantel  !  Then, 
silence  and  the  night  crowd  upon  your  soul  drearily. 
But  your  thought  is  active.  It  shapes  at  your  bed-side 
the  loved  figure  of  your  mother,  or  it  calls  up  tho 


54  DREAM -LiFE. 

whole  company  of  Dr.  Bidlow's  boys ;  and  weeks 
of  study  or  of  play,  group  like  magic  on  your 
quickened  vision : — then,  a  twinge  of  pain  will  call 
again  the  dreariness,  and  your  head  tosses  upon  the 
pillow,  and  your  eye  searches  the  gloom  vainly  for 
pleasant  faces ;  and  your  fears  brood  on  that  drearier, 
coming  night  of  Death — far  longer,  and  far  more 
cheerless  than  this. 

But  even  here,  the  memory  of  some  little  prayer 
you  have  been  taught,  which  promises  a  Morning  after 
the  Night,  comes  to  your  throbbing  brain  ;  and  its 
murmur  on  your  fevered  lips,  as  you  breathe  it,  soothes 
like  a  caress  of  angels,  and  wooes  you  to  smiles  and 
sleep. 

As  the  days  pass,  you  grow  stronger ;  and  Frank 
comes  in  to  tell  you  of  the  school,  and  that  your  old 
tormentor  has  been  expelled  :  and  you  grow  into 
a  strong  friendship  with  Frank,  and  you  think  of 
yourselves  as  a  new  Damon  and  Pythias — and  that  you 
will  some  day  live  together  in  a  fine  house,  with  plenty 
of  horses,  and  plenty  of  chestnut  trees.  Alas,  the  boy 
counts  little  on  those  later  and  bitter  fates  of  life,  which 
sever  his  early  friendships,  like  wisps  of  straw  ! 

At  other  times,  with  your  eye  upon  the  sleek,  trim 
figure  of  the  Doctor,  and  upon  his  huge  bunch  of 
watch  seals,  you  think  you  will  some  day  be  a  Doctor ; 
and  that  with  a  wife  and  children,  and  a  respectable 


SCHOOL    D  RE  A:\IC.  55 

gig,  and  gold  watch,  with  seals  to  match,  you  would 
needs  be  a  very  happy  fellow. 

And  with  such  fancies  drifting  on  your  thought,  you 
count  for  the  hundredth  time  the  figures  upon  the 
curtains  of  your  bed, — you  trace  out  the  flower  wreatl-s 
upon  the  paper-hangings  of  your  room  ; — your  eyos 
rest  idly  on  the  cat  playing  with  the  fringe  of  the 
curtain  ; — you  see  your  mother  sitting  with  her 
needle-work  beside  the  fire  ; — you  watch  the  sunbeams 
as  they  drift  along  the  carpet,  from  morning  until 
noon ;  and  from  noon  till  night,  you  watch  them  playing 
on  the  leaves,  and  dropping  spangles  on  the  lawn  ;  and 
as  you  watch — you  dream. 


III. 

Bor   SENTIMENT. 

'\\  yEEKS,  and  even  years  of  your  boyhood  roll  on, 
T  V  in  the  which  your  dreams  are  growing  wider 
and  grander, — even  as  the  Spring,  which  I  have  made 
the  type  of  the  boy-age,  is  stretching  its  foliage  farther 
and  farther,  and  dropping  longer  and  heavier  shadows 
on  the  land. 

Nelly,  that  sweet  sister,  has  grown  into  your  heart 
strangely ;  -  and  you  think  that  all  they  write  in  their 
books  about  love,  cannot  equal  your  fondness  for  little 
Nelly.  She  is  pretty,  they  say  ;  but  what  do  you  care 
for  her  prettiness  ?  She  is  so  good,  so  kind — so 
watchful  of  all  your  wants,  so  willing  to  yield  to  your 
haughty  claims ! 

But,  alas,  it  is  only  when  this  sisterly  love  is  lost 


BOY    SENTIMENT.  57 

forever, — only  when  the  inexorable  world  separates  a 
family  and  tosses  it  upon  the  waves  of  fate  to  wide- 
lying  distances — perhaps  to  graves  ! — that  a  man  feels, 
what  a  boy  can  never  know, — the  disinterested  and 
abiding  affection  of  a  sister. 

All  this,  that  I  have  set  down,  comes  back  to  you 
long  afterward,  when  you  recal  with  tears  of  regret, 
your  reproachful  words,  or  some  swift  outbreak  of 
passion. 

Little  Madge  is  a  friend  of  Nelly's — a  mischievous, 
blue-eyed  hoyden.  They  tease  you  about  Madge. 
You  do  not  of  course  care  one  straw  for  her,  but  yet  it 
is  rather  pleasant  to  be  teased  thus.  Nelly  never  does 
this  ;  oh  no,  not  she.  I  do  not  know  but  in  the  age  of 
childhood,  the  sister  is  jealous  of  the  affections  of  a 
brother,  and  would  keep  his  heart  wholly  at  home, 
until  suddenly,  and  strangely,  she  finds  her  own — 
wandering. 

But  after  all,  Madge  is  pretty  ;  and  there  is  some 
thing  taking  in  her  name.  Old  people,  and  very 
precise  people,  call  her  Margaret  Boyne.  But  you  do 
not :  it  is  only  plain  Madge  ; — it  sounds  like  her — very 
rapid  and  mischievous.  It  would  be  the  most  absurd 
thing  in  the  world  for  you  to  like  her,  for  she  teases  you 
in  innumerable  ways :  she  laughs  at  your  big  shoes ; 
(such  a  sweet  little  foot  as  she  has  !)  and  she  pins  strips 
of  paper  on  your  coat  collar ;  and  time  and  again  she 
8* 


58  DREAM-LIFE. 

has  worn  off  your  hat  in  triumph,  very  well  knowing 
that  you,  such  a  quiet  body,  and  so  much  afraid  of  her, 
will  never  venture  upon  any  liberties  with  her  gipsy 
bonnet. 

You  sometimes  wish,  in  your  vexation,  as  you  see 
her  running,  that  she  would  fall  and  hurt  herself  badly ; 
but  the  next  moment,  it  seems  a  very  wicked  wish,  and 
you  renounce  it.  Once,  she  did  come  very  near  it. 
You  were  all  playing  together  by  the  big  swing — (how 
plainly  it  swings  in  your  memory  now  !) — Madge  had 
the  seat,  and  you  were  famous  for  running  under  with  a 
long  push,  which  Madge  liked  better  than  anything 
else :  well,  you  have  half  run  over  the  ground,  when 
crash  comes  the  swing,  and  poor  Madge  with  it !  You 
fairly  scream  as  you  catch  her  up.  But  she  is  not  hurt 
— only  a  cry  of  fright,  and  a  little  sprain  of  that  fairy 
ancle ;  and  as  she  brushes  away  the  tears,  and  those 
flaxen  curls,  and  breaks  into  a  merry  laugh, — half  at 
your  woe-worn  face,  and  half  in  vexation  at  herself; 
and  leans  her  hand  (such  a  hand  !)  upon  your  shoulder, 
to  limp  away  into  the  shade,  you  dream — your  first 
dream  of  love. 

But  it  is  only  a  dream,  not  at  all  acknowledged  by 
you  :  she  is  three  or  four  years  your  junior, — too  young 
altogether.  It  is  very  absurd  to  talk  about  it.  There 
is  nothing  to  be  said  of  Madge — only — Madge  !  The 
name  does  it. 


BOY    SENTIMENT.  59 

It  is  rather  a  pretty  name  to  write.  You  are  fond 
of  making  capital  M's ;  and  sometimes  you  follow  it 
with  a  capital  A.  Then  you  practise  a  little  upon  a  D, 
and  perhaps  back  it  up  with  a  G.  Of  course  it  is  the 
merest  accident  that  these  letters  come  together.  It 
seems  funny  to  you — very.  And  as  a  proof  that  they 
are  made  at  random,  you  make  a  T  or  an  R  before 
them,  and  some  other  quite  irrelevant  letters  after  it. 

Finally,  as  a  sort  of  security  against  all  suspicion,  you 
cross  it  out — cross  it  a  great  many  ways ; — even  holding 
it  up  to  the  light,  to  see  that  there  should  be  no  air  of 
intention  about  it. 

You  need  have  no  fear,  Clarence,  that  your 

hieroglyphics  will  be  studied  so  closely.  Accidental  as 
they  are,  you  are  very  much  more  interested  in  them 
than  any  one  else ! 

It  is  a  common  fallacy  of  this  dream  in  most 

stages  of  life,  that  a  vast  number  of  persons  employ 
their  time  chiefly  in  spying  out  its  operations. 

Yet  Madge  cares  nothing  about  you,  that  you  know 
of.  Perhaps  it  is  the  very  reason,  though  you  do  not 
suspect  it  then,  why  you  care  so  much  for  her.  At  any 
rate,  she  is  a  friend  of  Nelly's  ;  and  it  is  your  duty  not 
to  dislike  her.  Nelly  too,  sweet  Nelly,  gets  an  inkling 
of  matters ;  for  sisters  are  very  shrewd  in  suspicions  of 
this  sort — shrewder  than  brothers  or  fathers ;  and  like 


<30  DREAM-LIFE. 

the  good  kind  girl  that  she  is,  she  wishes  to  humor  even 
your  weakness. 

Madge  drops  in  to  tea  quite  often  :  Nelly  has  some 
thing  in  particular  to  show  her,  two  or  three  times  a 
week.  Good  Nelly, — perhaps  she  is  making  your 
troubles  all  the  greater !  You  gather  large  bunches  of 
grapes  for  Madge — because  she  is  a  friend  of  Nelly's — 
which  she  doesn't  want  at  all,  and  very  pretty  bouquets, 
which  she  either  drops,  or  pulls  to  pieces. 

In  the  presence  of  your  father  one  day,  you  drop 
some  hint  about  Madge,  in  a  very  careless  way — -a  way 
shrewdly  calculated  to  lay  all  suspicion ; — at  which 
your  father  laughs.  This  is  odd :  it  makes  you  wonder 
if  your  father  was  ever  in  love  himself. 

You  rather  think  that  he  has  been. 

Madge's  father  is  dead  and  her  mother  is  poor ;  and 
you  sometimes  dream,  how — whatever  your  father  may 
think  or  feel — you  will  some  day  make  a  large  fortune,' 
in  some  very  easy  way,  and  build  a  snug  cottage,  and 
have  one  horse  for  your  carriage,  and  one  for  your  wife, 
(not  Madge,  of  course — that  is  absurd)  and  a  turtle 
shell  cat  for  your  wife's  mother,  and  a  pretty  gate  to 
the  front  yard,  and  plenty  of  shrubbery,  and  how  your 
wife  will  come  dancing  down  the  path  to  meet  you, — 
as  the  Wife  does  in  Mr.  Irving's  Sketch  Book, — and 
how  she  will  have  a  harp  inside,  and  will  wear  white 
dresses,  with  a  blue  sash. 


BOY    SENTIMENT.  01 

Poor  Clarence,  it  never  once  occurs  to  you,  that 

even  Madge  may  grow  fat,  and  wear  check  aprons,  and 
snuffy-brown  dresses  of  woollen  stuff,  and  twist  her  hair 
in  yellow  papers  !  Oh  no,  boyhood  has  no  such  dreams 
as  that ! 

I  shall  leave  you  here  in  the  middle  of  your  first 
foray  into  the  world  of  sentiment,  with  those  wicked 
blue  eyes  chasing  rainbows  over  your  heart,  and  those 
little  feet  walking  every  day  into  your  affections. 
I  shall  leave  you  before  the  affair  has  ripened  into  any 
overtures,  and  while  there  is  only  a  sixpence  split 
in  halves,  and  tied  about  your  neck,  and  Maggie's 
neck,  to  bind  your  destinies  together. 

If  I  even  hinted  at  any  probability  of  your  marrying 
her,  or  of  your  not  marrying  her,  you  would  be  very 
likely  to  dispute  me.  One  knows  his  own  feelings,  or 
thinks  he  does,  so  much  better  than  any  one  can 
tell  him  ! 


IV. 

A  FRIEND  MADE  AND  FRIEND  LOST. 

r  I  ^0  visit,  is  a  great  thing  in  the  boy  calendar : — 
J-  not  to  visit  this  or  that  neighbor, — to  drink 
tea,  or  eat  strawberries,  or  play  at  draughts ; — but,  to 
go  away  on  a  visit  in  a  coach,  with  a  trunk,  and 
a  great-coat,  and  an  umbrella  : — this  is  large  ! 

It  makes  no  difference,  that  they  wish  to  be  rid 
of  your  noise,  now  that  Charlie  is  sick  of  a  fever : — 
the  reason  is  not  at  all  in  the  way  of  your  pride  of 
visiting.  You  are  to  have  a  long  ride  in  a  coach, 
and  eat  a  dinner  at  a  tavern,  and  to  see  a  new  town 
almost  as  large  as  the  one  you  live  in,  and  you  are  to 
make  new  acquaintances.  In  short,  you  are  to  see  the 
world  : — a  very  proud  thing  it  is,  to  see  the  world  ! 

As  you  journey  on,  after  bidding  your  friends  adieu, 


A   FRIEND   MADE    AND    FRIEND   LOST.  63 

and  as  you  see  fences  and  houses  to  which  you  have 
not  been  used,  you  think  them  very  odd  indeed  :  but  it 
occurs  to  you,  that  the  geographies  speak  of  very 
various  national  characteristics,  and  you  are  greatly 
gratified  with  this  opportunity  of  verifying  your  study. 
You  see  new  crops  too,  perhaps  a  broad-leaved  tobacco 
field,  which  reminds  you  pleasantly  of  the  luxuriant 
vegetation  of  the  tropics,  spoken  of  by  Peter  Parley, 
and  others. 

As  for  the  houses  and  barns  in  the  new  town,  they 
quite  startle  you  with  their  strangeness :  you  observe 
that  some  of  the  latter  instead  of  having  one  stable 
door,  have  five  or  six,  a  fact  which  puzzles  you  very 
much  indeed.  You  observe  farther,  that  the  houses 
many  of  them  have  balustrades  upon  the  top,  which 
seems  to  you  a  very  wonderful  adaptation  to  the  wants 
of  boys,  who  wish  to  fly  kites,  or  to  play  upon 
the  roof.  You  notice  with  special  favor,  one  very  low 
roof  which  you  might  climb  upon  by  a  mere  plank,  and 
you  think  the  boys,  whose  father  lives  in  that  house, 
are  very  fortunate  boys. 

Your  old  aunt,  whom  you  visit,  you  think  wears  a 
very  queer  cap,  being  altogether  different  from  that  of 
the  old  nurse,  or  of  Mrs.  Boyne, — Madge's  mother. 
As  for  the  house  she  lives  in,  it  is  quite  wonderful. 
There  are  such  an  immense  number  of  closets,  and 
closets  within  closets,  reminding  you  of  the  mysteries 


64  DREAM -LiFE. 

of  Rinaldo  Rinaldmi.  Beside  which,  there  are  im 
mensely  curious  bits  of  old  furniture — so  bla-ck  and 
heavy,  and  with  such  curious  carving  ! — and  you  think 
of  the  old  wainscot  in  the  Children  of  the  Abbey. 
You  think  you  will  never  tire  of  rambling  about  in  its 
odd  corners,  and  of  what  glorious  stories  you  will  have 
to  tell  of  it,  when  you  go  back  to  Nelly,  and  Charlie. 

As  for  acquaintances,  you  fall  in  the  very  first  day 
with  a  tall  boy  next  door,  called  Nat.  which  seems  an 
extraordinary  name.  Besides,  he  has  travelled  ;  and 
as  he  sits  with  you  on  the  summer  nights  under  the 
linden  trees,  he  tells  you  gorgeous  stories  of  the  things 
he  has  seen.  He  has  made  the  voyage  to  London ; 
and  he  talks  about  the  ship  (a  real  ship)  and  starboard 
and  larboard,  and  the  spanker,  in  a  way  quite  surprising ; 
and  he  takes  the  stern  oar,  in  the  little  skiff  when  you 
row  off  in  the  cove  abreast  of  the  town,  in  a  most 
seaman-like  way. 

He  bewilders  you  too,  with  his  talk  about  the  great 
bridges  of  London — London  bridge  specially,  where 
they  sell  kids  for  a  penny ;  which  story  your  new 
acquaintance,  unfortunately,  does  not  confirm.  You 
have  read  of  these  bridges,  and  seen  pictures  of  them 
in  the  Wonders  of  the  World  ;  but  then  Nat.  has  seen 
them  with  his  own  eyes :  he  has  literally  walked  over 
London  Bridge,  on  his  own  feet !  You  look  at  his 
very  shoes  in  wonderment  and  are  surprised  you  do 


A    FRIEND   MADE   AND   FRIEND   LOST.  65 

not  find  some  startling  difference  between  those  shoes, 
and  your  shoes.  But  there  is  none — only  yours  are  a 
trifle  stouter  in  the  welt.  You  think  Nat.  one  of  the 
fortunate  boys  of  this  world — born,  as  your  old  nurse 
used  to  say — with  a  gold  spoon  in  his  mouth. 

Beside  Nat,  there  is  a  girl  lives  over  the  opposite 
side  of  the  way,  named  Jenny,  \rith  an  eye  as  black  as 
a  coal ;  and  a  half  a  year  older  than  you ;  but  about 
your  height ; — whom  you  fancy  amazingly. 

She  has  any  quantity  of  toys,  that  she  lets  you  play 
with,  as  if  they  were  your  own.  And  she  has  an  odd, 
old  uncle,  who  sometimes  makes  you  stand  up  together, 
and  then  marries  you  after  his  fashion, — much  to  the 
amusement  of  a  grown  up  house-maid,  whenever  she 
gets  a  peep  at  the  performance.  And  it  makes  you 
somewhat  proud  to  hear  her  called  your  wife ;  and  you 
wonder  to  yourself,  dreamily,  if  it  won't  be  true  some 
day  or  other. 

Fie,  Clarence,  where  is  your  split  sixpence, 

and  your  blue  ribbon  ! 

Jenny  is  romantic,  and  talks  of  Thaddeus  of  Wai-saw 
in  a  very  touching  manner,  and  promises  to  lend  you 
the  book.  She  folds  billets  in  a  lover's  fashion,  and 
practises  love-knots  upon  her  bonnet  strings.  She  looks 
out  of  the  corners  of  her  eyes  very  often,  and  sighs. 
She  is  frequently  by  herself,  and  pulls  flowers  to  pieces. 


66  DREAM-LIFE. 

She  has  great  pity  for  middle-aged  bachelors,  and 
thinks  them  all  disappointed  men. 

After  a  time  she  writes  notes  to  you,  begging  you 
would  answer  them  at  the  earliest  possible  moment,  and 
signs  herself — 'your  attached  Jenny.'  She  takes  the 
marriage  farce  of  her  uncle  in  a  cold  way — as  trifling 
with  a  very  serious  subject,  and  looks  tenderly  at  you. 
She  is  very  much  shocked  when  her  uncle  offers  to  kiss 
her ;  and  when  he  proposes  it  to  you,  she  is  equally 
indignant,  but — with  a  great  change  of  color. 

Nat.  says  one  day,  in  a  confidential  conversation,  that 
it  won't  do  to  marry  a  woman  six  months  older  than 
yourself;  and  this  coming  from  Nat.  who  has  been  to 
London,  rather  staggers  you.  You  sometimes  think 
that  you  would  like  to  marry  Madge  and  Jenny  both,  if 
the  thing  were  possible  ;  for  Nat.  says  they  sometimes 
do  so  the  other  side  of  the  ocean,  though  he  has  never 
seen  it  himself. 

Ah,  Clarence,  you  will  have  no  such  weakness 

as  you  grow  older :  you  will  find  that  Providence  has 
charitably,  so  tempered  our  affections,  that  every  man 
of  only  ordinary  nerve  will  be  amply  satisfied  with  a 
single  wife  ! 

All  this  time, — for  you  are  making  your  visit  a  very 
long  one,  so  that  autumn  has  come,  and  the  nights  are 
growing  cool,  and  Jenny  and  yourself  are  transferring 
your  little  coquetries  to  the  chimney  corner; — poor 


A   FRIEND   MADE   AND   FRIEND   LOST.  67 

Charlie  lies  sick,  at  home.  Boyhood,  thank  Heaven, 
does  not  suffer  severely  from  sympathy  when  the  object 
is  remote.  And  those  letters  from  the  mother,  telling 

'  O. 

you  that  Charlie  cannot  play, — cannot  talk  even  as  he 
used  to  do;  and  that  perhaps  his  'Heavenly  Father 
will  take  him  away,  to  be  with  him  in  the  better 
world,'  disturb  you  for  a  time  only.  Sometimes, 
however,  they  come  back  to  your  thought  on  a 
wakeful  night,  and  you  dream  about  his  suffering,  and 
think — why  it  is  not  you,  but  Charlie,  who  is  sick? 
The  thought  puzzles  you  ;  and  well  it  may,  for  in  it  lies 
the  whole  mystery  of  our  fate. 

Those  letters  grow  more  and  more  discouraging,  and 
the  kind  admonitions  of  your  mother  grow  more 
earnest,  as  if  (though  the  thought  does  not  come  to 
you  until  years  afterward)  she  was  preparing  herself  to 
fasten  upon  you,  that  surplus  of  affection,  which  she 
fears  may  soon  be  withdrawn  forever  from  the  sick 
child. 

It  is  on  a  frosty,  bleak  evening,  when  you  are  playing 
with  Nat.  that  the  letter  reaches  you  which  says 
Charlie  is  growing  worse,  and  that  you  must  come  to 
your  home.  It  makes  a  dreamy  night  for  you — 
fancying  how  Charlie  will  look,  and  if  sickness  has 
altered  him  much,  and  if  he  will  not  be  well  by 
Christmas.  From  this,  you  fall  away  in  your  reverie,  to 
the  odd  old  house,  and  its  secret  cupboards,  and  your 


68  DREAM-LIFE 

aunt's  queer  caps  :  then  come  up  those  black  eyes  of 
'  your  attached  Jenny,'  and  you  think  it  a  pity  that  she 
is  six  months  older  than  you  ;  and  again — as  you  recal 
one  of  her  sighs — you  think — that  six  months  are  not 
much  after  all ! 

You  bid  her  good-bye,  with  a  little  sentiment 
swelling  in  your  throat,  and  are  mortally  afraid  Nat. 
will  see  your  lip  tremble.  Of  course  you  promise  to 
write,  and  squeeze  her  hand  with  an  honesty,  you  do 
not  think  of  doubting — for  weeks. 

It  is  a  dull,  cold  ride,  that  day,  for  you.  The 
winds  sweep  over  the  withered  corn-fields,  with  a  harsh, 
chilly  whistle ;  and  the  surfaces  of  the  little  pools  by  the 
road-side  are  tossed  up  into  cold  blue  wrinkles  of  water. 
Here  and  there  a  flock  of  quail,  with  their  feathers 
ruffled  in  the  autumn  gusts,  tread  through  the  hard,  dry 
stubble  of  an  oat-field ;  or  startled  by  the  snap  of  the 
driver's  whip,  they  stare  a  moment  at  the  coach,  then 
whir  away  down  the  cold  current  of  the  wind.  The 
blue  jays  scream  from  the  road-side  oaks,  and  the  last 
of  the  blue  and  purple  asters  shiver  along  the  wall. 
And  as  the  sun  sinks,  reddening  all  the  western  clouds, 
to  the  color  of  the  frosted  maples, — light  lines  of  the 
Aurora  gush  up  from  the  northern  hills,  and  trail  their 
splintered  fingers  far  over  the  autumn  sky. 

It  is  quite  dark  when  you  reach  home,  but  you  see 
the  bright  reflection  of  a  fire  within,  and  presently  at 


A   FRIEND    MADE    AND    FRIEND   LOST.  69 

the  open  door,  Nelly  clapping  her  hands  for  welcome. 
But  there  are  sad  faces  when  you  enter.  Your  mother 
folds  you  to  her  heart ;  but  at  your  first  noisy  out-burst 
of  joy,  puts  her  finger  on  her  lip,  and  whispers  poor 
Charlie's  name.  The  Doctot  you  see  too,  slipping 
softly  out  of  the  bed-room  door  with  glasses  in  his 
hand  ;  and — you  hardly  know  how — your  spirits  grow 
sad,  and  your  heart  gravitates  to  the  heavy  air  of  all 
about  you. 

You  cannot  see  Charlie,  Nelly  says  ; — and  you  cannot 
in  the  quiet  parlor,  tell  Nelly  a  single  one  of  the  many 
things,  which  you  had  hoped  to  tell  her.  She  says — 
'  Charlie  has  grown  so  thin  and  so  pale,  you  would 
never  know  him.'  You  listen  to  her,  but  you  cannot 
talk  :  she  asks  you  what  you  have  seen,  and  you  begin, 
for  a  moment  joyously ;  but  when  they  open  the  door 
of  the  sick  room,  and  you  hear  a  faint  sigh,  you  cannot 
go  on.  You  sit  still,  with  your  hand  in  Nelly's,  and 
look  thoughtfully  into  the  blaze. 

You  drop  to  sleep  after  that  day's  fatigue,  with 
singular  and  perplexed  fancies  haunting  you;  and  when 
you  wake  up  with  a  shudder  in  the  middle  of  the 
night,  you  have  a  fancy  that  Charlie  is  really  dead  : 
you  dream  of  seeing  him  pale  and  thin,  as  Nelly 
described  him,  and  with  the  starched  grave  clothes  on 
him.  You  toss  over  in  your  bed,  and  grow  hot  and 
feverish.  You  cannot  sleep  ;  and  you  get  up  stealthily, 


70  DREAM -LiFE. 

and  creep  down  stairs ;  a  light  is  burning  in  the  hall : 
the  bed-room  door  stands  half  open,  and  you  listen — 
fancying  you  hear  a  whisper.  You  steal  on  through 
the  hall,  and  edge  around  the  side  of  the  door.  A 
little  lamp  is  flickering  on  the  hearth,  and  the  gaunt 
shadow  of  the  bedstead  lies  dark  upon  the  ceiling. 
Your  mother  is  in  her  chair,  with  her  head  upon  her 
hand — though  it  is  long  after  midnight.  The  Doctor 
is  standing  with  his  back  toward  you,  and  with  Charlie's 
little  wrist  in  his  fingers  ;  and  you  hear  hard  breathing, 
and  now  and  then,  a  low  sigh  from  your  mother's 
chair. 

An  occasional  gleam  of  fire-light  makes  the  gaunt 
shadows  stagger  on  the  wall,  like  something  spectral. 
You  look  wildly  at  them,  and  at  the  bed  where  your 
own  brother — your  laughing,  gay-hearted  brother,  is 
lying.  You  long  to  see  him,  and  sidle  up  softly  a  step 
or  two :  but  your  mother's  ear  has  caught  the  sound, 
and  she  beckons  you 'to  her,  and  folds  you  again  in  her 
embrace.  You  whisper  to  her  what  you  wish.  She 
rises,  and  takes  you  by  the  hand,  to  lead  you  to  the 
bedside. 

The  Doctor  looks  very  solemnly,  as  we  approach. 
He  takes  out  his  watch.  He  is  not  counting  Charlie's 
pulse,  for  he  has  dropped  his  hand ;  and  it  lies  care 
lessly,  but  oh,  how  thin  !  over  the  edge  of  the  bed. 

He  shakes  his  head  mournfully  at  your  mother  ;  and 


A   FRIEND    MADE    AND    FRIEND    LOST.  71 

she  springs  forward,  dropping  your  hand,  and  lays  her 
fingers  upon  the  forehead  of  the  boy,  and  passes  her 
hand  over  his  mouth. 

"Is  he  asleep,  Doctor?"  she  says,  in  a  tone  you 
do  not  know. 

"  Be  calm,  madam."     The  Doctor  is  very  calm. 

"I  am  calm,"  says  your  mother;  but  you  do  not 
think  it,  for  you  see  her  tremble  very  plainly. 

"  Dear  madam,  he  will  never  waken  in  this  world  !" 

There  is  no  cry, — only  a  bowing  down  of  your 
mother's  head  upon  the  body  of  poor,  dead  Charlie  ! — 
and  only  when  you  see  her  form  shake  and  quiver  with 
the  deep,  smothered  sobs,  your  crying  bursts  forth  loud 
and  strong. 

The  Doctor  lifts  you  in  his  arms,  that  yen  may 
see — that  pale  head, — those  blue  eyes  all  sunken, — that 
flaxen  hair  gone, — those  white  lips  pinched  and  hard ! 

Never,  never,  will  the  boy  forget  his  first  terrible 

sight  of  Death  ! 

In  your  silent  chamber,  after  the  storm  of  sobs  has 
wearied  you,  the  boy-dreams  are  strange  and  earnest. 
They  take  hold  on  that  awful  Visitant, — that  strange 
slipping  away  from  life,  of  which  we  know  so  little,  and 
yet  know,  alas,  so  much !  Charlie  that  was  your 
brother,  is  now  only  a  name :  perhaps  he  is  an  angel : 
perhaps  (for  the  old  nurse  has  said  it,  when  he  was 
ugly — and  now,  you  hate  her  for  it)  he  is  with  Satan. 


72  DuEAM-LlFE. 

But  you  are  sure  this  cannot  be :  you  are  sure  that 
God  who  made  him  suffer,  would  not  now  quicken,  and 
multiply  his  suffering.  It  agrees  with  your  religion  to 
think  so  ;  and  just  now,  you  want  your  religion  to  help 
you  all  it  can. 

You  toss  in  your  bed,  thinking  over  and  over  of  that 

strange  thing Death: — and  that  perhaps  it  may 

overtake  you,  before  you  are  a  man  ;  and  you  sob  out 
those  prayers  (you  scarce  know  why)  which  ask  God  to 
Keep  life  in  you.  You  think  the  involuntary  fear  that 
makes  your  little  prayer  full  of  sobs,  is  a  holy  feeling  : — 
and  so  it  is  a  holy  feeling — the  same  feeling  which 
makes  a  stricken  child,  yearn  for  the  embrace,  and 
the  protection  of  a  Parent,  But  you  will  find  there 
are  those  canting  ones,  trying  to  persuade  you  at  a 
later  day,  that  it  is  a  mere  animal  fear,  and  not  to  be 
cherished. 

You  feel  an  access  of  goodness  growing  out  of  your 
boyish  grief :  you  feel  right-minded :  it  seems  as  if 
your  little  brother  in  going  to  Heaven,  had  opened  a 
pathway  thither,  down  which,  goodness  comes  streaming 
over  your  soul. 

You  think  how  good  a  life  you  will  lead ;  and  you 
map  out  great  purposes,  spreading  themselves. over  the 
school- weeks  of  your  remaining  boyhood ;  and  you  love 
your  friends,  or  seem  to,  far  more  dearly  than  you  ever 
loved  them  before ;  and  you  forgive  the  boy  who 


A   FRIEND    MADE    AND   FRIEND   LOST.  73 

provoked  you  to  that  sad  fall  from  the  oaks,  and  you 
forgive  him  all  his  wearisome  teasings.  But  you 
cannot  forgive  yourself  for  some  harsh  words  that 
you  have  once  spoken  to  Charlie :  still  less  can  you 
forgive  yourself  for  having  once  struck  him,  in  passion, 

with  your  fist.     You  cannot  forget  his  sobs  then  : 

if  he  were  only  alive  one  little  instant,  to  let  you  say, — 
"  Charlie,  will  you  forgive  me  ?" 

Yourself,  you  cannot  forgive ;  and  sobbing  over  it, 
and  murmuring  "  Dear — dear  Charlie !" — you  drop  into 
a  troubled  sleep. 


V. 

BOY    RELIGION. 

IS  any  weak  soul  frightened,  that  I  should  write 
of  the  Religion  of  the  boy  ?  How  indeed  could  I 
cover  the  field  of  his  moral,  or  intellectual  growth,  if  I 
left  unnoticed  those  dreams  of  futurity  and  of  goodness, 
which  come  sometimes  to  his  quieter  moments,  and 
oftener,  to  his  hours  of  vexation  and  trouble  ?  It 
would  be  as  wise  to  describe  the  season  of  Spring,  with 
no  note  of  the  silent  influences  of  that  burning  Day- 
god,  which  is  melting  day  by  day  the  shattered  ice-drifts 
of  Winter ; — which  is  filling  every  bud  with  succulence, 
and  painting  one  flower  with  crimson,  and  another  with 
white. 

I  know  there  is  a  feeling — by  much  too  general  as  it 
seems  to  me, — that  the  subject  may  not  be  approached, 


BOY    RELIGION.  75 

except  through  the  dicta  of  certain  ecclesiastic  bodies ; — 
and  that  the  language  which  touches  it,  must  not  bo 
that  every-day  language  which  mirrors  the  vitality  of 
our  thought, — but  should  have  some  twist  of  that 
theologic  mannerism,  which  is  as  cold  to  the  boy,  as  to 
the  busy  man  of  the  world. 

I  know  very  well  that  a  great  many  good  souls  will 
call  levity,  what  I  call  honesty;  and  will  abjure  that 
familiar  handling  of  the  boy's  lien  upon  Eternity,  which 
my  story  will  show.  But  I  shall  feel  sure  that  in 
keeping  true  to  Nature  with  word  and  with  thought,  I 
shall  in  no  way  offend  against  those  Highest  truths,  to 
which  all  truthfulness  is  kindred. 

You  have  Christian  teachers,  who  speak  always 
reverently  of  the  Bible  :  you  grow  up  in  the  hearing 
of  daily  prayers :  nay,  you  are  perhaps  taught  to  say 
them. 

Sometimes  they  have  a  meaning,  and  sometimes  they 
have  none.  They  have  a  meaning,  when  your  heart  is 
troubled, — when  a  grief  or  a  wrong  weighs  upon  you : 
then,  the  keeping  of  the  Father,  which  you  implore, 
seems  to  come  from  the  bottom  of  your  soul ;  and  your 
eye  suffuses  with  such  tears  of  feeling,  as  you  count 
holy,  and  as  you  love  to  cherish  in  your  memory. 

But,  they  have  no  meaning,  when  some  trifling 
vexation  angers  you,  and  a  distaste  for  all  about  you, 
breeds  a  distaste  for  all  above  you.  In  the  long  hours 


70  DREAM-LIFE. 

of  toilsome  days,  little  thought  comes  over  you  of  the 
morning  prayer;  and  only  when  evening  deepens  its 
shadows,  and  your  boyish  vexations  fatigue  you  to 
thoughtfulness,  do  you  dream  of  that  coming,  and 
endless  night,  to  which, — they  tell  you, — prayers  soften 
the  way. 

Sometimes  upon  a  Summer  Sunday,  when  you  are 
wakeful  upon  your  seat  in  church,  with  some  strong- 
worded  preacher,  who  says  things  that  half  fright  you, 
it  occurs  to  you  to  consider  how  much  goodness  you 
are  made  of ;  and  whether  there  be  enough  of  it  after 
all,  to  carry  you  safely  away  from  the  clutch  of  Evil  ? 
And  straightway  you  reckon  up  those  friendships  where 
your  heart  lies :  you  know  you  are  a  true  and  honest- 
friend  to  Frank ;  and  you  love  your  mother,  and  your 
father :  as  for  Nelly,  Heaven  knows,  you  could  not 
contrive  a  way  to  love  her  better  than  you  do. 

You  dare  not  take  much  credit  to  yourself  for  the 
love  of  little  Madge : — partly  because  you  have  some 
times  caught  yourself  trying — not  to  love  her:  and 
partly  because  the  black-eyed  Jenny  comes  in  tho 
way.  Yet  you  can  find  no  command  in  the  Cate 
chism,  to  love  one  girl  to  the  exclusion  of  all  other 
girls.  It  is  somewhat  doubtful  if  you  ever  do  mid  it. 
But,  as  for  loving  some  half  dozen  you  could  name, 
whose  images  drift  through  your  thought,  in  dirty, 
salmon-colored  frocks,  and  slovenly  shoes,  it  is  quite 


BOY    RELIGION.  77 

impossible ;  and  suddenly  this  thought,  coupled  with 
a  lingering  remembrance  of  the  pea-green  pantaloons, 
utterly  breaks  down  your  hopes. 

Yet,  you  muse  again, — there  are  plenty  of  good 
people  as  the  times  go,  who  have  their  dislikes,  and 
who  speak  them  too.  Even  the  sharp-talking  clergy 
man,  you  have  heard  say  some  veiy  sour  things  about 
his  landlord,  who  raised  his  rent  the  last  year.  And 
you  know  that  he  did  not  talk  as  mildly  as  he  does  in 
the  Church,  when  he  found  Frank  and  yourself  quietly 
filching  a  few  of  his  peaches,  through  the  orchard 
fence. 

But  your  clergyman  will  say  perhaps,  with  what 
seems  to  you,  quite  unnecessary  coldness,  that  good 
ness  is  not  to  be  reckoned  in  your  chances  of  safety ; — 
that  there  is  a  Higher  Goodness,  whose  merit  is  All- 
Sufficient.  This  puzzles  you  sadly;  nor  will  you 
escape  the  puzzle,  until  in  the  presence  of  the  Home 
altar,  which  seems  to  guard  you,  as  the  Lares  guarded 
Roman  children,  you  feel — you  cannot  tell  how, — 
that  good  actions  must  spring  from  good  sources  ;  and 
that  those  sources  must  lie  in  that  Heaven,  toward 
which  your  boyish  spirit  yearns,  as  you  kneel  at  your 
mother's  side. 

Conscience  too,  is  all  the  while  approving  you  for 
deeds  well  done ;  and, — wicked  as  you  fear  the  preacher 
might  judge  it, — you  cannot  but  found  on  these  deeds, 


78  DREAM    LIFE. 

a  hope  that  your  prayer  at  night  flows  more  easily, 
more  freely,  and  more  holily  toward  "Our  Father  in 
Heaven."  Nor  indeed,  later  in  life, — whatever  may  be 
the  ill-advised  expressions  of  human  teachers — will  you 
ever  find  that  Duty  performed,  and  generous  endeavor 
will  stand  one  whit  in  the  way  either  of  Faith,  or  of 
Love.  Striving  to  be  good,  is  a  very  direct  road 
toward  Goodness ;  and  if  life  be  so  tempered  by  high 
motive  as  to  make  actions  always  good,  Faith  is 
unconsciously  won. 

Another  notion  that  disturbs  you  very  much,  is 
your  positive  dislike  of  long  sermons,  and  of  such 
singing  as  they  have  when  the  organist  is  away. 
You  cannot  get  the  force  of  that  verse  of  Dr.  Watts 
which  likens  heaven  to  a  never-ending  Sabbath ;  you 
do  hope — though  it  seems  a  half  wicked  hope — that 

old  Dr. ,  will  not  be  the  preacher.     You  think 

that  your  heart  in  its  best  moments,  craves  for  some 
thing  more  lovable.  You  suggest  this  perhaps  to 
some  Sunday  teacher,  who  only  shakes  his  head  sourly, 
and  tells  you  it  is  a  thought  that  the  Devil  is  putting 
in  your  brain.  It  strikes  you  oddly  that  the  Devil 
should  be  using  a  verse  of  Dr.  Watts  to  puzzle  you ! 
But  if  it  be  so,  he  keeps  it  sticking  by  your  thought 
very  pertinaciously,  until  some  simple  utterance  of 
your  mother  about  the  Love  that  reigns  in  tho  other 


BOY    RE  LI  GI  o  N.  79 

world,  seems  on  a  sudden  to  widen  Heaven,  and  to 
waft  away  your  doubts  like  a  cloud. 

It  excites  your  wonder  not  a  little,  to  find  people 
who  talk  gravely  and  heartily  of  the  excellence  of 
sermons  and  of  Church-going,  do  sometimes  fall  asleep 
under  it  all.  And  you  wonder — if  they  really  like 
preaching  so  well, — why  they  do  not  buy  some  of  the 
minister's  old  manuscripts,  and  read  them  over  on 
week-days; — or,  invite  the  Clergyman  to  preach  to 
them  in  a  quiet  way  in  private  ? 

Ah,  Clarence,  you  do  not  yet  know  the  poor 

weakness  of  even  maturest  manhood,  and  the  feeble 
gropings  of  the  soul  toward  a  soul's  paradise,  in  the 
best  of  the  world  !  You  do  not  yet  know  either  that 
ignorance  and  fear  will  be  thrusting  their  untruth  and 
false  show  into  the  very  essentials  of  Religion. 

Again,  you  wonder, — if  the  Clergymen  are  all  such 
very  good  men  as  you  are  taught  to  believe,  why  it  is, 
that  every  little  while  people  will  be  trying  to  send 
them  off;  and  very  anxious  to  prove  that  instead  of 
being  so  good,  they  are  in  fact,  very  stupid  and  bad 
men.  At  that  day,  you  have  no  clear  conceptions 
of  the  distinction  between  stupidity  and  vice;  and 
think  that  a  good  man  must  necessarily  say  very 
eloquent  things.  You  will  find  yourself  sadly  mistaken 
on  this  point,  before  you  get  on  very  far  in  life. 

Heaven,  when  your  mother  peoples  it  with  friends 


80  DREAM-LIFE. 

gone,  and  little  Charlie,  and  that  better  Friend,  who, 
she  says,  took  Charlie  in  his  arms,  and  is  now  his 
Father,  above  the  skies,  seems  a  place  to  be  loved,  and 
longed  for.  But — to  think  that  Mr.  Such-an-one,  who 
is  only  good  on  Sundays,  will  be  there  too ;  and  to 
think  of  his  talking  as  he  does,  of  a  place  which  you 
are  sure  he  would  spoil  if  he  were  there, — puzzles  you 
again;  and  you  relapse  into  wonder,  doubt  and 
yearning. 

And  there,  Clarence,  for  the  present  I  shall 

leave  you.  A  wide,  rich  Heaven  hangs  above  you, 
but  it  hangs  very  high.  A  wide,  rough  world  is 
around  you,  and  it  lies  very  low ! 

I  am  assuming  in  these  sketches  no  office  of  a 
teacher.  I  am  seeking  only  to  make  a  truthful  analysis 
of  the  boyish  thought  and  feeling.  But  having 
ventured  thus  far  into  what  may  seem  sacred  ground, 
I  shall  venture  still  farther,  and  clinch  my  matter  with 
a  moral. 

There  is  very  much  Religious  teaching,  even  in  so 
good  a  country  as  New  England,  which  is  far  too 
harsh,  too  dry,  too  cold  for  the  heart  of  a  boy.  Long 
sermons,  doctrinal  precepts,  and  such  tediously-worded 
dogmas  as  were  uttered  by  those  honest,  but  hard- 
spoken  men — the  Westminster  Divines,  fatigue,  and 
puzzle,  and  dispirit  him. 


BOY    RELIGION.  81 

They  may  be  well  enough  for  those  strong  souls 
which  strengthen  by  task-work,  or  for  those  mature 
people  whose  iron  habit  of  self-denial  has  made  patience 
a  cardinal  virtue;  but  they  fall  (experto  crede)  upon 
the  unfledged  faculties  of  the  boy,  like  a  winter's  rain 
upon  Spring  flowers, — like  hammers  of  iron  upon  lithe 
timber.  They  may  make  deep  impression  upon  his 
moral  nature,  but  there  is  great  danger  of  a  sad 
rebound. 

Is  it  absurd  to  suppose  that  some  adaptation  is 
desirable  ?  And  might  not  the  teachings  of  that  Reli 
gion,  which  is  the  ^Egis  of  our  moral  being,  be 
inwrought  with  some  of  those  finer  harmonies  of  speech 
and  form — which  were  given  to  wise  ends ; — and  lure 
the  boyish  soul,  by  something  akin  to  that  gentleness, 
which  belonged  to  the  Nazarene  Teacher ;  and  which 
provided — not  only,  meat  for  men,  but  "inilk  for 
babes?" 


VI. 

A  NEW  ENGLAND   SQUIRE. 

"T7\RANK  has  a  grandfather  living  in  the  country, 
JL  a  good  specimen  of  the  old  fashioned  New 
England  farmer.  And — go  where  one  will,  the  world 
over — I  know  of  no  race  of  men,  who  taken  together, 
possess  more  integrity,  more  intelligence,  and  more  of 
those  elements  of  comfort,  which  go  to  make  a  home 
beloved,  and  the  social  basis  firm,  than  the  New 
England  fanners. 

They  are  not  brilliant,  nor  are  they  highly  refined ; 
they  know  nothing  of  arts,  histrionic  or  dramatic; 
they  know  only  so  much  of  older  nations  as  their 
histories  and  newspapers  teach  them;  in  the  fashion 
able  world  they  hold  no  place; — but  in  energy,  in 
industry,  in  hardy  virtue,  in  substantial  knowledge, 


A    NEW    ENGLAND    SQUIRE.          83 

and  in  manly  independence,  they  make  up  a  race,  that 
is  hard  to  be  matched. 

The  French  peasantry  are,  in  all  the  essentials  of 
intelligence,  and  sterling  worth,  infants,  compared  with 
them  :  and  the  farmers  of  England  are  either  the 
merest  jockeys  in  grain,  with  few  ideas  beyond  their 
sacks,  samples,  and  market-days ; — or,  with  added 
cultivation,  they  lose  their  independence  in  a  subservi 
ency  to  some  neighbor  patron  of  rank ;  and  superior 
intelligence  teaches  them  no  lesson  so  quickly,  as  that 
their  brethren  of  the  glebe  are  unequal  to  them,  and 
are  to  be  left  to  their  cattle  and  the  goad. 

There  are  English  farmers  indeed,  who  are  men 
in  earnest,  who  read  the  papers,  and  who  keep  the 
current  of  the  year's  intelligence;  but  such  men  are 
the  exceptions.  In  New  England,  with  the  school 
upon  every  third  hill-side,  and  the  self-regulating,  free- 
acting  church,  to  watch  every  valley  with  week-day 
quiet,  and  to  wake  every  valley  with  Sabbath  sound, 
the  men  become  as  a  class,  bold,  intelligent,  and 
honest  actors,  who  would  make  again,  as  they  have 
made  before,  a  terrible  army  of  defence;  and  who 
would  find  reasons  for  their  actions,  as  strong  as  their 
armies. 

Frank's  grandfather  has  silver  hair,  but  is  still 
hale,  erect,  and  strong.  His  dress  is  homely,  but  neat. 
Being  a  thorough-going  Protectionist,  he  has  no  fancy 


84  DREAM  LIFE. 

for  the  gew-ga\?s  of  foreign  importation,  and  makes  it 
a  point  to  appear  always  in  the  village  church,  and 
on  all  great  occasions,  in  a  sober  suit  of  homespun. 
He  has  no  pride  of  appearance,  and  he  needs  none. 
He  is  known  as  the  Squire,  throughout  the  township ; 
and  no  important  measure  can  pass  the  board  of 
select-men  without  the  Squire's  approval : — and  this, 
from  no  blind  subserviency  to  his  opinion,  because  his 
farm  is  large,  and  he  is  reckoned  "  fore-handed,"  but 
because  there  is  a  confidence  in  his  judgment. 

He  is  jealous  of  none  of  the  prerogatives  of  the 
country  parson,  or  of  the  school-master,  or  of  the 
Village  doctor ;  and  although  the  latter  is  a  testy 
politician  of  the  opposite  party,  it  does  not  at  all 
impair  the  Squire's  faith  in  his  calomel ; — he  suffers 
all  his  Radicalism,  with  the  same  equanimity  that  he 
suffers  his  rhubarb. 

The  day-laborers  of  the  neighborhood,  and  the 
small  farmers  consider  the  Squire's  note  of  hand  for 
their  savings,  better  than  the  best  bonds  of  city  origin ; 
and  they  seek  his  advice  is  all  matters  of  litigation. 
He  is  a  Justice  of  the  Peace,  as  the  title  of  Squire 
hi  a  New  England  village  implies  ;  and  many  are  the 
country  courts  that  you  peep  upon,  with  Frank,  from 
the  door  of  the  great  dining  room. 

The    defendant   always    seems    to    you,  in    these 


A    NEW    ENGLAND    SQUIRE.          85 

important  cases, — especially  if  his  beard  is  rather 
long, — an  extraordinary  ruffian ;  to  whom  Jack  Shep- 
pard  would  have  been  a  comparatively  innocent  boy. 
You  watch  curiously  the  old  gentleman,  sitting  in  his 
big  arm  chair,  with  his  spectacles  in  their  silver  case 
at  his  elbow,  and  his  snuff  box  in  hand,  listening 
attentively  to  some  grievous  complaint;  you  see  him 
ponder  deeply — with  a  pinch  of  snuff  to  aid  his  judg 
ment, — and  you  listen  with  intense  admiration,  as 
he  gives  a  loud,  preparatory  -'Ahem,"  and  clears  away 
the  intricacies  of  the  case  with  a  sweep  of  that  strong 
practical  sense,  which  distinguishes  the  New  England 
farmer, — getting  at  the  very  hinge  of  the  matter, 
without  any  consciousness  of  his  own  precision,  and 
satisfying  the  defendant  by  tne  clearness  of  his  talk,  as 
much  as  by  the  leniency  of  his  judgment. 

His  lands  lie  along  those  swelling  hills  which  in 
southern  New  England,  cariy  the  chain  of  the  White 
and  Green  Mountains,  in  gentle  undulations,  to  the 
borders  of  the  sea.  He  farms  some  fifteen  hundred 
acres, — "  suitably  divided,"  as  the  old  school  agricul 
turists  say,  into  "  wood-land,  pasture,  and  tillage."  The 
farm-house,  a  large  irregularly  built  mansion  of  wood, 
stands  upon  a  shelf  of  the  hills  looking  southward, 
and  is  shaded  by  century-old  oaks.  The  barns  and 
out-buildings  are  grouped  in  a  brown  phalanx,  a 
little  to  the  northward  of  the  dwelling.  Between  them 


86  DREAM-LIFE. 

a  high  timber  gate,  opens  upon  the  scattered  pasture 
lands  of  the  hills  :  opposite  to  this,  and  across  the 
farm-yard  which  is  the  lounging  place  of  scores  of  red 
necked  turkeys,  and  of  matronly  hens,  clucking  to  their 
callow  brood,  another  gate  of  similar  pretensions  opens 
upon  the  wide  meadow  land,  which  rolls  with  a  heavy 
"  ground  swell,"  along  the  valley  of  a  mountain  river. 
A  veteran  oak  stands  sentinel  at  the  brown  meadow- 
gate,  its  trunk  all  scarred  with  the  ruthless  cuts  of 
new-ground  axes,  and  the  limbs  garnished  in  summer 
time,  with  the  crooked  snathes  of  murderous-looking 
scythes. 

The  high-road  passes  a  stone's  throw  away ;  but 
there  is  little  "  travel "  to  be  seen ;  and  every  chance 
passer  will  inevitably  come  under  the  range  of  the 
kitchen  windows,  and  be  studied  carefully  by  the  eyes 
of  the  stout  dairy-maid  : — to  say  nothing  of  the 
stalwart  Indian  cook. 

This  last,  you  cannot  but  admire  as  a  type  of  that 
noble  old  race,  among  whom  your  boyish  fancy  has 
woven  so  many  stories  of  romance.  You  wonder  how 
she  must  regard  the  white  interlopers  upon  her  own 
soil ;  and  you  think  that  she  tolerates  the  Squire's 
farming  privileges,  with  more  modesty  than  you  would 
suppose.  You  learn,  however,  that  she  pays  very 
little  regard  to  white  rights, — when  they  conflict  with 
her  own;  and  further  learn,  to  your,  deep  regret. 


A    NEW    ENGLAND    SQUIRE.  87 

that  your  Princess  of  the  old  tribe,  is  sadly  addicted 
to  cider  drinking  :  and  having  heard  her  once  or 
twice,  with  a  very  indistinct  "  Goo-er  night  Sq-quare," 
upon  her  lips — your  dreams  about  her,  grow  very 
tame. 

The  Squire,  like  all  very  sensible  men,  has  his 
hobbies,  and  peculiarities.  He  has  a  great  contempt, 
for  instance,  for  all  paper  money ;  and  imagines  banks 
to  be  corporate  societies,  skillfully  contrived  for  the 
legal  plunder  of  the  community.  He  keeps  a  supply 
of  silver  and  gold  by  him,  in  the  foot  of  an  old 
stocking ;  and  seems  to  have  great  confidence  in  the 
value  of  Spanish  milled  dollars.  He  has  no  kind  of 
patience  with  the  new  doctrines  of  farming.  Liebig, 
and  all  the  rest,  he  sets  down  as  mere  theorists ;  and  has 
far  more  respect  for  the  contents  of  his  barn-yard,  than 
for  all  the  guano  deposits  in  the  world.  Scientific 
farming,  and  gentleman  farming,  may  do  very  well,  he 
says,  '  to  keep  idle  young  fellows  from  the  City  out  of 
mischief ;  but  as  for  real,  effective  management,  there's 
nothing  like  the  old  stock  of  men,  who  ran  barefoot 
until  they  were  ten,  and  who  count  the  hard  winters 
by  their  frozen  toes.'  And  he  is  fond  of  quoting  in 
this  connection, — the  only  quotation  by  the  by,  that 
the  old  gentleman  ever  makes — that  couplet  of  Poor 
Richard  : — 


88  DREAM-LIFE. 

He  that  by  the  plough  would  thrive, 
Himself  must  either  hold  or  drive. 


The  Squire  has  been  in  his  day,  connected  more  or 
less  intimately  with  Turn-pike  enterprise,  which  the 
rail-roads  of  the  day  have  thrown  sadly  into  the  back 
ground;  and  he  reflects  often,  in  a  melancholy  way, 
upon  the  good  old  times  when  a  man  could  travel  in 
his  own  carriage  quietly  across  the  country,  without 
being  frightened  with  the  clatter  of  an  engine; — and 
when  Turn-pike  stock,  paid  wholesome  yearly  dividends 
of  six  per  cent. 

An  almost  constant  hanger-on  about  the  premises, 
and  a  great  favorite  with  the  Squire,  is  a  stout,  middle- 
aged  man,  with  a  heavy  bearded  face — to  whom  Frank 
introduces  you,  as  "  Captain  Dick" ;  and  he  tells  you 
moreover,  that  he  is  a  better  butcher, — a  better  wall 
layer,  and  cuts  a  broader  "swathe,"  than  any  man 
upon  the  farm.  Beside  all  which,  he  has  an  immense 
deal  of  information.  He  knows,  in  the  Spring,  where 
all  the  crows'  nests  are  to  be  found;  he  tells  Frank 
where  the  foxes  burrow ;  he  has  even  shot  two  or 
three  raccoons  in  the  swamps ;  he  knows  the  best 
season  to  troll  for  pickerel ;  he  has  a  thorough  under 
standing  of  bee-hunting  ;  he  can  tell  the  ownership 
of  every  stray  heifer  that  appears  upon  the  road : 
indeed,  scarce  an  inquiry  is  made,  or  an  opinion 


A    NEW    ENGLAND    SQUIRE.          89 

formed,  on  any  of  these  subjects,  or  on  such  kindred 
ones  as  the  weather,  or  potato  crop,  without  previous 
consultation  with  "  Captain  Dick." 

You  have  an  extraordinary  respect  for  Captain 
Dick  :  his  gruff  tones,  dark  beard,  patched  waist 
coat,  and  cow-hide  boots,  only  add  to  it :  you  can 
compare  your  regard  for  him,  only  with  the  sentiments 
you  entertain  for  those  fabulous  Roman  heroes,  led 
on  by  Horatius,  who  cut  down  the  bridge  across 
the  Tiber,  and  then  swam  over  to  their  wives  and 
families. 

A  superannuated  old  greyhound  lives  about  the 
premises,  and  stalks  lazily  around,  thrusting  his  thin 
nose  into  your  hands,  in  a  veiy  affectionate  manner. 

Of  course,  in  your  way,  you  are  a  lion  among 
the  boys  of  the  neighborhood  :  a  blue  jacket  that 
you  wear,  with  bell  buttons  of  white  metal,  is  their 
especial  wonderment.  You  astonish  them,  moreover, 
with  your  stories  of  various  parts  of  the  world  which 
they  have  never  visited.  They  tell  you  of  the  haunts 
of  rabbits,  and  great  snake  stories,  as  you  sit  in  the 
dusk  after  supper,  under  the  old  oaks  ;  and  you 
delight  them  in  turn,  with  some  marvellous  tale  of 
South  American  reptiles,  out  of  Peter  Parley's  books. 

In  all  this,  your  new  friends  are  men  of  observation ; 
while  Frank  and  yourself,  are  comparatively  men  of 
reading.  In  ciphering,  and  all  schooling,  you  find 


90  DREAM-LIFE. 

yourself  a  long  way  before  th  ^m ;  and  you  talk  of 
problems,  and  foreign  seas,  and  Latin  declensions,  in  a 
way  that  sets  them  all  agape. 

As  for  the  little  country  girls,  their  bare  legs  rather 
stagger  your  notions  of  propriety  ;  nor  can  you  wholly 
get  over  their  outside  pronunciation  of  some  of  the  vow 
els.  Frank,  however,  has  a  little  cousin, — a  toddling, 
wee  thing,  some  seven  years  your  junior,  who  has  a  rich 
eye  for  an  infant.  But,  alas,  its  color  means  nothing  ; 
poor  Fanny  is  stone  blind !  Your  pity  leans  toward 
her  strangely,  as  she  feels  her  way  about  the  old  parlor ; 
and  her  dark  eyes  wander  over  the  wainscot,  or  over  the 
clear,  blue  sky — with  the  same,  sad,  painful  vacancy. 

And  yet — it  is  very  strange  ! — she  does  not  grieve  : 
there  is  a  sweet,  soft  smile  upon  her  lip, — a  smile  that 
will  come  to  you  in  your  fancied  troubles  of  after  life, 
with  a  deep  voice  of  reproach. 

Altogether,  you  grow  into  a  liking  of  the  country : 
your  boyish  spirit  loves  its  fresh,  bracing  air,  and  tho 
sparkles  of  dew,  that  at  sunrise  cover  the  hills  with 
diamonds ; — and  the  wild  river,  with  its  black-topped, 
loitering  pools  ; — and  the  shaggy  mists  that  lie,  in  the 
nights  of  early  autumn,  like  unravelled  clouds,  lost 
upon  the  meadow.  You  love  the  hills  climbing  green 
and  grand  to  the  skies ;  or  stretching  away  in  distance, 
their  soft,  blue,  smoky  caps, — like  the  sweet,  half- faded 


A    NEW    ENGLAND    SQUIRE.          91 

memories  of  the  years  behind  you.  You  love  those 
oaks  tossing  up  their  broad  arms  into  clear  heaven,  with 
a  spirit  and  a  strength,  that  kindles  your  dawning  pride 
and  purposes;  and  that  makes  you  yearn,  as  your 
forehead  mantles  with  fresh  blood,  for  a  kindred  spirit, 
and  a  kindred  strength.  Above  all,  you  love — though 
you  do  not  know  it  now — the  BREADTH  of  a  country 
life.  In  the  fields  of  God's  planting,  there  is  ROOM. 
No  walls  of  brick  and  mortar  cramp  one  :  no  factitious 
distinctions  mould  your  habit.  The  involuntary  reaches 
of  the  spirit,  tend  toward  the  True,  and  the  Natural. 
The  flowers,  the  clouds,  and  the  fresh-smelling  earth,  all 
give  width  to  your  intent,  The  boy  grows  into 
manliness,  instead  of  growing  to  be  like  men.  He 
claims, — with  tears  almost,  of  brotherhood, — his  kinship 
with  Nature ;  and  he  feels,  in  the  mountains,  his  heir- 
ship  to  the  Father  of  Nature  ! 

This  delirium  of  feeling  may  not  find  expression  upon 
the  lip  of  the  boy  ;  but  yet  it  underlies  his  thought,  and 
will,  without  his  consciousness,  give  the  spring  to  his 
musing  dreams. 

So  it  is,  that  as  you  he  there  upon  the  sunny 

greensward,  at  the  old  Squire's  door,  you  muse  upon 
the  time  when  some  rich  lying  land,  with  huge 
granaries,  and  cozy  old  mansion  sleeping  under  the 
trees,  shall  be  yours ; — when  the  brooks  shall  water 
your  meadows,  and  come  laughing  down  your  pasture 


92  DREAM-LIFE. 

lands  ; — when  the  clouds  shall  shed  their  spring 
fragrance  upon  your  lawns,  and  the  daisies  bless  youi 
paths. 

You  will  then  be  a  Squire,  with  your  cane,  your 
lean-limbed  hound,  your  stocking-leg  of  specie,  and 
your  snuff-box.  You  will  be  the  happy,  and  respected 
husband  of  some  tidy  old  lady  in  black,  and  spectacles, 
— a  little  phthisicky,  like  Frank's  grandmother, — and 
an  accomplished  cook  of  stewed  pears,  and  Johnny 
cakes  ! 

It  seems  a  very  lofty  ambition,  at  this  stage  of 
growth,  to  reach  such  eminence,  as  to  convert  your 
drawer  in  the  wainscot,  that  has  a  secret  spring,  into  a 
bank  for  the  country  people ;  and  the  power  to  send  a 
man  to  jail,  seems  one  of  those  stretches  of  human 
prerogative,  to  which  few  of  your  fellow  mortals  can 
ever  hope  to  attain. 

Well,  it  may  all  be.  And  who  knows  but  the 

Dreams  of  Age,  when  they  are  reached,  will  be  lighted 
by  the  same  spirit  and  freedom  of  nature,  that  is 
iround  you  now  ?  Who  knows,  but  that  after  tracking 
you  through  the  Spring,  and  the  Summer  of  Youth, 
we  shall  find  frosted  Age  settling  upon  you  heavily,  and 
solemnly,  in  the  very  fields  where  you  wanton  to-day  ? 

This  American  life  of  ours  is  a  tortuous  and  shifting 
impulse.  It  brings  Age  back,  from  years  of  wandering, 
to  totter  in  the  hamlet  of  its  birth ;  and  it  scatters 


A    NEW    ENGLAND    SQUIRE.          93 

armies  of  ripe  manhood,  to  bleach  far-away  shores  with 
their  bones. 

That  Providence,  whose  eye  and  hand  are  the  spy 
and  the  executioner  of  the  Fateful  changes  of  our  life, 
may  bring  you  back  in  Manhood,  or  in  Age,  to  this 
mountain  home  of  New  England ;  and  that  very  willow 
yonder,  which  your  fancy  now  makes  the  graceful 
mourner  of  your  leave,  may  one  day  shadow  mournfully 
your  grave ! 


VII. 

THE    COUNTRY    CHURCH. 

ri  iHE  country  church  is  a  square  old  building  of 
JL  wood,  without  paint  or  decoration — and  of  that 
genuine,  Puritanic  stamp,  which  is  now  fast  giving 
way  to  Greek  porticos,  and  to  cockney  towers.  It 
stands  upon  a  hill  with  a  little  church  yard  in  its 
rear,  where  one  or  two  sickly  looking  trees  keep  watch 
and  ward  over  the  vagrant  sheep  that  graze  among 
the  graves.  Bramble  bushes  seem  to  thrive  on  the 
bodies  below,  and  there  is  no  flower  in  the  little  yard, 
save  a  few  golden  rods,  which  flaunt  their  gaudy 
inodorous  color  under  the  lee  of  the  northern  wall. 

New  England  country-livers  have  as  yet  been  very 
little  innoculated  with  the  sentiment  of  beauty;  even 
the  door-step  to  the  church  is  a  wide  flat  stone,  that 


THE    COUNTRY   CHURCH.  95 

shows  not  a  single  stroke  of  the  hammer.  Within,  the 
simplicity  is  even  more  severe.  Brown  galleries  run 
around  three  sides  of  the  old  building,  supported  by 
timbers,  on  which  you  still  trace,  under  the  stains  from 
the  leaky  roof,  the  deep  scoring  of  the  woodman's  axe. 

Below,  the  unpainted  pews  are  ranged  in  square 
forms,  and  by  age,  have  gained  the  color  of  those 
fragmentary  wrecks  of  cigar  boxes,  which  you  see  upon 
the  top  shelves,  in  the  bar-rooms  of  country  taverns. 
The  minister's  desk  is  lofty,  and  has  once  been  honored 
with  a  coating  of  paint ; — as  well  as  the  huge  sounding- 
board,  which,  to  your  great  amazement,  protrudes  from 
the  wall,  at  a  veiy  dangerous  angle  of  inclination,  over 
the  speaker's  head.  As  the  Squire's  pew  is  the  place 
of  honor,  to  the  right  of  the  pulpit,  you  have  a  little 
tremor  yourself,  at  sight  of  the  heavy  sounding-board, 
and  cannot  forbear  indulging  in  a  quiet  feeling  of 
relief,  when  the  last  prayer  is  said. 

There  are  in  the  Squire's  pew,  long,  faded,  crimson 
cushions ;  which,  it  seems  to  you,  must  date  back 
nearly  to  the  commencement  of  the  Christian  era  in 
this  country.  There  are  also  sundry  old  thumb-worn 
copies  of  Dr.  Dwight's  Version  of  the  Psalms  of  David 
— l  appointed  to  fee  sung  in  churches,  by  authority  of 
the  General  Association  of  the  State  of  Connecticut.1 
The  sides  of  Dr.  Dwight's  Version  are,  you  observe, 
sadly  warped,  and  weather-stained  ;  and  from  some 


96  DREAM-LIFE. 

stray  figures  which  appear  upon  a  fly-leaf,  you  are 
constrained  to  think,  that  the  Squire  has  sometime 
employed  a  quiet  interval  of  the  service,  with  reckoning 
up  the  contents  of  the  old  stocking-leg  at  home. 

The  parson  is  a  stout  man,  remarkable  in  your 
opinion,  chiefly,  for  a  yellowish-brown  wig,  a  strong 
nasal  tone,  and  occasional  violent  thumps  upon  the 
little,  dingy,  red  velvet  cushion,  studded  with  brass 
tacks,  at  the  top  of  the  desk.  You  do  not  altogether 
admire  his  style ;  and  by  the  time  he  has  entered  upon 
his  '  Fourthly,'  you  give  your  attention,  in  despair,  to  a 
new  reading  (it  must  be  the  twentieth)  of  the  preface 
to  Dr.  D  wight's  Version  of  the  Psalms. 

The  singing  has  a  charm  for  you.  There  is  a  long, 
thin-faced,  flax-haired  man,  who  carries  a  tuning  fork  in 
his  waistcoat  pocket,  and  who  leads  the  choir.  His 
position  is  in  the  very  front  rank  of  gallery  benches, 
facing  the  desk ;  and  by  the  time  the  old  clergyman 
has  read  two  verses  of  the  psalm,  the  country  chorister 
turns  around  to  his  little  group  of  aids — consisting  of 
the  blacksmith,  a  carroty  headed  school-master,  two 
women  in  snuff-colored  silks,  and  a  girl  in  pink  bonnet — 
to  announce  the  tune. 

This  being  done  in  an  authoritative  manner,  he  lifts 
his  long  music  book, — glances  again  at  his  little  com 
pany, — clears  his  throat  by  a  powerful  ahem,  followed 
by  a  powerful  use  of  a  bandanna  pocket-handkerchief, — 


THE    COUNTRY    CHURCH.  97 

draws  out  his  tuning  fork,  and  waits  for  the  parson  to 
close  his  reading.  He  now  reviews  once  more  his 
company, — throws  a  reproving  glance  at  the  young 
woman  in  the  pink  hat,  who  at  the  moment  is  biting 
off  a  stout  bunch  of  fennel, — lifts  his  music  book, — 
thumps  upon  the  rail  with  his  fork, — listens  keenly, — 
gives  a  slight  ahem, — falls  into  the  cadence, — swells  into 
a  strong  crescendo, — catches  at  the  first  word  of  the 
line,  as  if  he  were  afraid  it  might  get  away, — turns  to 
his  company, — lifts  his  music  book  with  spirit, — gives  it 
a  powerful  slap  with  the  disengaged  hand,  and  with  a 
majestic  toss  of  the  head,  soars  away,  with  half  the 
women  below  straggling  on  in  his  wake,  into  some  such 
biave,  old  melody  as LITCHFIELD  ! 

Being  a  visitor,  and  in  the  Squire's  pew,  you  are 
naturally  an  object  of  considerable  attention  to  the  girls 
about  your  age ;  as  well  as  to  a  great  many  fat,  old 
ladies  in  iron  spectacles,  who  mortify  you  excessively,  by 
patting  you  under  the  chin  after  church ;  and  insist  upon 
mistaking  you  for  Frank  ;  and  force  upon  you  very  dry 
cookies,  spiced  with  caraway  seeds. 

You  keep  somewhat  shy  of  the  young  ladies,  as  they 
are  rather  stout  for  your  notions  of  beauty ;  and  wear 
thick  calf-skin  boots.  They  compare  very  poorly  with 
Jenny.  Jenny,  you  think,  would  be  above  eating 
gingerbread  between  service.  None  of  them,  you 
imagine,  even  read  Thaddeus  of  Warsaw,  or  ever  used 
5 


98  DREAM-LIFE. 

a  colored  glass  seal  with  a  heart  upon  it.  You  are 
quite  certain  they  never  did,  or  they  could  not,  surely, 
wear  such  dowdy  gowns,  and  suck  their  thumbs  as  they 
do! 

The  farmers  you  have  a  high  respect  for ; — particu 
larly  for  one  weazen-faced  old  gentleman  in  a  brown 
surtout,  who  brings  his  whip  into  church  with  him,  who 
sings  in  a  very  strong  voice,  and  who  drives  a  span  of 
gray  colts.  You  think,  however,  that  he  has  got  rather 
a  stout  wife ;  and  from  the  way  he  humors  her  in 
stopping  to  talk  with  two  or  three  other  fat  women, 
before  setting  off  for  home,  (though  he  seems  a  little 
fidgetty)  you  naively  think,  that  he  has  a  high  regard 
for  her  opinion.  Another  townsman,  who  attracts  your 
notice,  is  a  stout  old  deacon,  who  before  entering, 
always  steps  around  the  corner  of  the  church,  and  puts 
his  hat  upon  the  ground,  to  adjust  his  wig  in  a  quiet 
way.  He  then  marches  up  the  broad  aisle  in  a  stately 
manner,  and  plants  his  hat,  and  a  big  pair  of  buckskin 
mittens,  on  the  little  table  under  the  desk.  When  he 
is  fairly  seated  in  his  corner  of  the  pew,  with  his  elbow 
upon  the  top-rail — almost  the  only  man  who  can 
comfortably  reach  it, — you  observe  that  he  spreads  his 
brawny  fingers  over  his  scalp,  in  an  exceedingly  cautious 
manner ;  and  you  innocently  think  again,  that  it  is  very 
hypocritical  in  a  Deacon,  to  be  pretending  to  lean  upon 
his  hand,  when  he  is  only  keeping  his  wig  straight. 


THE    COUNTRY    CHURCH.  99 

After  the  morning  service,  they  have  an  l  hour's 
intermission,'  as  the  preacher  calls  it ;  during  which,  the 
old  men  gather  on  a  sunny  side  of  the  building,  and 
after  shaking  hands  all  around,  and  asking  after  the 
'folks'  at  home,  they  enjoy  a  quiet  talk  about  the 
crops.  One  man  for  instance,  with  a  twist  in  his  nose, 
would  say,  '  it's  raether  a  growin'  season ; '  and  another 
would  reply — '  tolerable,  but  potatoes  is  feelin'  the  wet, 
badly.'  The  stout  deacon  approves  this  opinion,  and 
confirms  it,  by  blowing  his  nose  very  powerfully. 

Two  or  three  of  the  more  worldly  minded  ones,  will 
perhaps  stroll  over  to  a  neighbor's  barn-yard,  and  take  a 
look  at  his  young  stock,  and  talk  of  prices,  and  whittle 
a  little ;  and  very  likely  some  two  of  them,  will  make  a 
conditional  *  swop '  of  '  three  likely  yer'lings '  for  a  pair 
of  *  two-year-olds.' 

The  youngsters  are  fond  of  getting  out  into  the 
grave-yard,  and  comparing  jack-knives,  or  talking  about 
the  school-master,  or  the  menagerie ; — or,  it  may  be,  of 
some  prospective  *  travel '  in  the  fall, — either  to  town 
or  perhaps  to  the  *  sea-shore.' 

Afternoon  service  hangs  heavily  ;  and  the  tall  choris 
ter  is  by  no  means  so  blithe,  or  so  majestic  in  the  toss 
of  his  head,  as  in  the  morning.  A  boy  in  the  next  box, 
tries  to  provoke  you  into  familiarity  by  dropping  pellets 
of  gingerbread  through  the  bars  of  the  pew ;  but  as 


100  DREAM -LIFE. 

you  are  not  accustomed  to  that  way  of  making 
acquaintance,  you  decline  all  overtures. 

After  the  service  is  finished,  the  wagons  that  have 
been  disposed  on  either  side  of  the  road,  are  drawn  up 
before  the  door.  The  old  Squire  meantime,  is  sure  to 
have  a  little  chat  with  the  parson  before  he  leaves  ;  in 
the  course  of  which,  the  parson  takes  occasion  to  say 
that  his  wife  is  a  little  ailing — '  a  slight  touch,'  he 
thinks,  '  of  the  rheumatiz.'  One  of  the  children  too, 
has  been  troubled  with  the  '  summer  complaint'  for  a  day 
or  two;  but  he  thinks  that  a  dose  of  catnip,  under 
Providence,  will  effect  a  cure.  The  younger,  and 
unmarried  men,  with  red  wagons,  flaming  upon  bright, 
yellow  wheels,  make  great  efforts  to  drive  off  in  the  van  ; 
and  they  spin  frightfully  near  some  of  the  fat,  sour-faced 
women,  who  remark  in  a  quiet,  but  not  very  Christian 
tone,  that  '  they  fear  the  elder's  sermon  hasn't  done  the 
young  bucks  much  good.'  It  is  much  to  be  feared,  in 
truth,  that  it  has  not. 

In  ten  minutes  the  old  church  is  thoroughly  deserted ; 
the  neighbor  who  keeps  the  key  has  locked  up  for 
another  week,  the  creaking  door ;  and  nothing  of  the 
service  remains  within,  except — Dr.  Dwight's  version, 
— the  long  music  books, — crumbs  of  gingerbread,  and 
refuse  stalks  of  despoiled  fennel. 

And  yet,  under  the  influence  of  that  old  weather- 
stained  temple,  are  perhaps  growing  up — though  you 


THE   COUNTRY   CHURCH.  101 

do  not  once  fancy  it — souls,  possessed  of  an  energy,  an 
industry,  and  a  respect  for  virtue,  which  will  make  them 
stronger  for  the  real  work  of  life,  than  all  the  elegant 
children  of  a  city.  One  lesson,  which  even  the  rudest 
churches  of  New  England  teach, — with  all  their  harsh 
ness,  and  all  their  repulsive  severity  of  form — is  the 
lesson  of  SELF-DENIAL.  Once  armed  with  that,  and 
manhood  is  strong.  The  soul  that  possesses  the 
consciousness  of  mastering  passion,  is  endowed  with  an 
element  of  force,  that  can  never  harmonize  with 
defeat.  Difficulties,  it  wears  like  a  summer  garment, 
and  flings  away,  at  the  first  approach  of  the  winter  of 

NEED. 

Let  not  any  one  suppose  then,  that  in  this  detail  of 
the  country  life,  through  which  our  hero  is  led,  I 
would  cast  obloquy,  or  a  sneer,  upon  its  simplicity,  or 
upon  its  lack  of  refinement.  Goodness,  and  strength, 
in  this  world,  are  quite  as  apt  to  wear  rough  coats,  as 
fine  ones.  And  the  words  of  thorough,  and  self- 
sacrificing  kindness,  are  far  more  often  dressed  in  the 
uncouth  sounds  of  retired  life,  than  in  the  polished 
utterance  of  the  town.  Heaven  has  not  made  warm 
hearts,  and  honest  hearts  distinguishable  by  the  quality 
of  the  covering.  True  diamonds  need  no  work  of  the 
artificer  to  reflect,  and  multiply  their  rays.  Goodness 
is  more  within,  than  without ;  and  purity  is  of  nearer 
kin  to  the  soul,  than  to  the  body. 


102  DREAM-LIFE. 

And,  Clarence,  it  may  well  happen,  that  later 

in  life— under  the  gorgeous  ceilings  of  Venetian 
churches,  or  at  some  splendid  mass  of  Notre  Dame, 

with  embroidered  coats,  and  costly  silks  around  you, 

your  thoughts  will  run  back  to  that  little  storm-beaten 
church,  and  to  the  willow  waving  in  its  yard— with  a 
Hope  that  glows ; — and  with  a  tear,  that  you  embalm  ! 


vin. 

A   HOME   SCENE. 

AND  now  I  shall  not  leave  this  realm  of  boyhood, 
or  suffer  my  hero  to  slip  away  from  this  gala 
time  of  his  life,  without  a  fair  look  at  that  Home  where 
his  present  pleasures  lie,  and  where  all  his  dreams  begin 
and  end. 

Little  does  the  boy  know,  as  the  tide  of  years  drifts 
by,  floating  him  out  insensibly  from  the  harbor  of  his 
home,  upon  the  great  sea  of  life, — what  joys,  what 
opportunities,  what  affections,  are  slipping  from  him 
into  the  shades  of  that  inexorable  Past,  where  no  man 
can  go,  save  on  the  wings  of  his  dreams.  Little  does 
he  think — and  God  be  praised,  that  the  thought  does 
not  sink  deep  lines  in  his  young  forehead ! — as  he  leans 
upon  the  lap  of  his  mother,  with  his  eye  turned  to  her, 


104  DREAM-LIFE. 

m  some  earnest  pleading  for  a  fancied  pleasure  of  the 
hour,  or  in  some  important  story  of  his  griefs,  that  such 
sharing  of  his  sorrows,  and  such  sympathy  with  his 
wishes,  he  will  find  no  where  again. 

Little  does  he  imagine,  that  the  fond  Nelly,  ever 
thoughtful  of  his  pleasure,  ever  smiling  away  his  griefs 
— will  soon  be  beyond  the  reach  of  either ;  and  that  the 
waves  of  the  years  which  come  rocking  so  gently  under 
him,  will  soon  toss  her  far  away,  upon  the  great  swell 
of  life. 

But  now,  you  are  there.  The  fire-light  glimmers 
upon  the  walls  of  your  cherished  home,  like  the  Vestal 
fire  of  old  upon  the  figures  of  adoring  virgins,  or 
like  the  flame  of  Hebrew  sacrifice,  whose  incense  bore 
hearts  to  Heaven.  The  big  chair  of  your  father  is 
drawn  to  its  wonted  corner  by  the  chimney  side; 
his  head,  just  touched  with  gray,  lies  back  upon  its 
oaken  top.  Little  Nelly  leans  upon  his  knee,  looking 
up  for  some  reply  to  her  girlish  questionings.  Oppo 
site,  sits  your  mother;  her  figure  is  thin,  her  look 
cheerful,  yet  subdued; — her  arm  perhaps  resting  on 
your  shoulder,  as  she  talks  to  you  in  tones  of  tender 
admonition,  of  the  days  that  are  to  come. 

The  cat  is  purring  on  the  hearth ;  the  clock  that 
ticked  so  plainly  when  Charlie  died,  is  ticking  on 
the  mantel  still.  The  great  table  in  the  middle  of  the 
room,  with  its  books  and  work,  waits  only  for  the 


A    HOME    SCENE.  105 

lighting  of  the  evening  lamp,  to  see  a  return  to  its 
stores  of  embroidery,  and  of  story. 

Upon  a  little  stand  under  the  mirror,  which  catches 
now  and  then  a  flicker  of  the  fire-light,  and  makes 
it  play,  as  if  in  wanton,  upon  the  ceiling,  lies  that  big 
book,  reverenced  of  your  New  England  parents — the 
Family  Bible.  It  is  a  ponderous  square  volume,  with 
heavy  silver  clasps,  that  you  have  often  pressed  open 
for  a  look  at  its  quaint  old  pictures,  or  for  a  study  of 
those  prettily  bordered  pages,  which  lie  between  the 
Testaments,  and  which  hold  the  Family  Eecord. 

There  are  the  Births  ; — your  father's,  and  your 
mother's ;  it  seems  as  if  they  were  born  a  long  time 
ago ;  and  even  your  own  date  of  birth  appears  an  al 
most  incredible  distance  back.  Then,  there  are  the 
marriages  ; — only  one  as  yet ;  and  your  mother's  maiden 
name  looks  oddly  to  you :  it  is  hard  to  think  of  her  as 
any  one  else  than  your  doting  parent.  You  wonder  if 
your  name  will  ever  come  under  that  paging ;  and 
wonder,  though  you  scarce  whisper  the  wonder  to  your 
self,  how  another  name  would  look,  just  below  yours 
— such  a  name  for  instance,  as  Fanny, — or  as  Miss 
Margaret  Boyne ! 

Last   of  all,   come   the    Deaths — only   one.     Poor 

Charlie!     How  it  looks?— 'Died  12  September  18 — 

Charles  Henry,  aged  four  years.'     You  know  just  how 

it  looks.     You  have  turned  to  it  often  ;  there,  you  seem 

5* 


100  DREAM-LIFE. 

to  be  joined  to  him,  though  only  by  the  turning  of  a 
leaf.  And  over  your  thoughts,  as  you  look  at  that 
page  of  the  record,  there  sometimes  wanders  a  vague 
shadowy  fear,  which  will  come, — that  your  own  name 
may  soon  be  there.  You  try  to  drop  the  notion,  as  if 
it  were  not  fairly  your  own  ;  you  affect  to  slight  it,  as 
you  would  slight  a  boy  who  presumed  on  your  acquaint 
ance,  but  whom  you  have  no  desire  to  know.  It  is  a 
common  thing,  you  will  find,  with  our  world,  to  decline 
familiarity  with  those  ideas  that  fright  us. 

Yet  your  mother — how  strange  it  is ! — has  no  feara 
of  such  dark  fancies.  Even  now,  as  you  stand  be 
side  her,  and  as  the  twilight  deepens  in  the  room,  her 
low,  silvery  voice  is  stealing  upon  your  ear,  telling  you 
that  she  cannot  be  long  with  you ; — that  the  time  is 
coming,  when  you  must  be  guided  by  your  own  judg 
ment,  and  struggle  with  the  world,  unaided  by  the 
friends  of  your  boyhood.  There  is  a  little  pride,  and  a 
great  deal  more  of  anxiety  in  your  thoughts  now, — as 
you  look  steadfastly  into  the  home  blaze,  while  those 
delicate  fingers,  so  tender  of  your  happiness,  play  with 
the  locks  upon  your  brow. 

To  struggle  with  the  world, — that  is  a  proud 

thing ;  to  struggle  alone, — there  lies  the  doubt !  Then, 
crowds  in  swift,  upon  the  calm  of  boyhood,  the  first 
anxious  thought  of  youth ; — then  chases  over  the  sky  of 
Spring,  the  first  heated,  and  wrathful  cloud  of  Summer ! 


A    HOME    SCENE.  107 

But  the  lamps  are  now  lit  in  the  little  parlor,  and 
they  shed  a  soft  haze  to  tho  farthest  corner  of  the 
room ;  while  the  fire  light  streams  over  the  floor  where 
puss  lies  purring.  Little  Madge  is  there;  she  has 
dropped  in  softly  with  her  mother,  and  Nelly  has 
welcomed  her  with  a  bound,  and  with  a  kiss.  Jenny 
has  not  so  rosy  a  cheek  as  Madge.  But  Jenny  with 
her  love  notes,  and  her  languishing  dark  eye,  you  think 
of,  as  a  lady ;  and  the  thought  of  her  is  a  constant  drain 
upon  your  sentiment.  As  for  Madge — that  girl  Madge, 
whom  you  know  so  well, — you  think  of  her  as  a  sister ; 
and  yet — it  is  veiy  odd, — you  look  at  her  far  oftener 
than  you  do  at  Nelly ! 

Frank  too  has  come  in  to  have  a  game  with  you  at 
draughts ;  and  he  is  in  capital  spirits,  all  brisk  and 
glowing  with  his  evening's  walk.  He, — bless  his  honest 
heart! — never  observes  that  you  arrange  the  board 
very  adroitly,  so  that  you  may  keep  half  an  eye  upon 
Madge,  as  she  sits  yonder  beside  Nelly.  Nor  does  he 
once  notice  your  blush,  as  you  catch  her  eye,  when  she 
raises  her  head  to  fling  back  the  ringlets;  and  then, 
with  a  sly  look  at  you,  bends  a  most  earnest  gaze  upon 
the  board,  as  if  she  were  especially  interested  in  the  dis 
position  of  the  men. 

You  catch  a  little  of  the  spirit  of  coquetry  yourself — 
(what  a  native  growth  it  is  !)  and  if  she  lift  her  eyes, 
when  you  are  gazing  at  her,  you  very  suddenly  divert 


108  DREAM-LIFE. 

your  look  to  the  cat  at  her  feet ;  and  remark  to  your 
friend  Frank,  in  an  easy,  off-hand  way — how  still  the 
cat  is  lying ! 

And  Frank  turns — thinking  probably,  if  he  thinks  at 
all  about  it,  that  cats  are  very  apt  to  lie  still,  when  they 
sleep. 

As  for  Nelly,  half  neglected  by  your  thought,  as 
well  as  by  your  eye,  while  mischievous  looking  Madge 
is  sitting  by  her,  you  little  know  as  yet,  what  kind 
ness — what  gentleness,  you  are  careless  of.  Few  loves 
in  life,  and  you  will  learn  it  before  life  is  done,  can 
balance  the  lost  love  of  a  sister. 

As  for  your  parents,  in  the  intervals  of  the  game,  you 
listen  dreamily  to  their  talk  with  the  mother  of  Madge 
— good  Mrs.  Boyne.  It  floats  over  your  mind,  as  you 
rest  your  chin  upon  your  clenched  hand,  like  a  strain 
of  old  familiar  music, — a  household  strain,  that  seems 
to  belong  to  the  habit  of  your  ear, — a  strain  that  will 
linger  about  it  melodiously  for  many  years  to  come, — 
a  strain  that  will  be  recalled  long  time  hence,  when 
life  is  earnest  and  its  cares  heavy,  with  tears  of  regret, 
and  with  sighs  of  bitterness. 

By  and  by  your  game  is  done  ;  and  other  games,  in 
which  join  Nelly  (the  tears  come  when  you  write  hex 
name,  now  /)  and  Madge  (the  smiles  come  when  you 
look  on  her  then,)  stretch  out  that  sweet  eventide  of 
Home,  until  the  lamp  flickers,  and  you  speak  your  friends 


A    HOME    SCENE.  109 

— adieu.  To  Madge,  it  is  said  boldly — a  boldness  put 
on  to  conceal  a  little  lurking  tremor; — but  there  is 
no  tremor  in  tke  home  good-night. 

Aye,   my   boy,   kiss    your    mother — kiss    her 

again  ; — fondle  your  sweet  Nelly  ; — pass  your  little 
hand  through  the  gray  locks  of  your  father; — love 
them  dearly,  while  you  can !  Make  your  good-nights 
linger;  and  make  your  adieus  long,  and  sweet,  and 
often  repeated.  Love  with  your  whole  soul, — Father, 
Mother,  and  Sister ; — for  these  loves  shall  die  ! 

Not  indeed  in  thought : — God   be  thanked ! — 

Nor  yet  in  tears, — for  He  is  merciful !  But  they  shall 
die  as  the  leaves  die, — die  as  Spring  dies  into  the  heat, 
and  ripeness  of  Summer,  and  as  boy-hood  dies  into  the 
elasticity  and  ambition  of  youth.  Death,  distance,  and 
time,  shall  each  one  of  them  dig  graves  for  your  affec 
tions  ;  but  this  you  do  not  know,  nor  can  know,  until 
the  story  of  your  life  is  ended. 

The  dreams  of  riches,  of  love,  of  voyage,  of  learning, 
that  light  up  the  boy-age  with  splendor,  will  pass  on 
and  over  into  the  hotter  dreams  of  youth.  Spring  buds 
and  blossoms  under  the  glowing  sun  of  April,  nurture 
at  their  heart  those  firstlings  of  fruit,  which  the  heat 
of  summer  shall  ripen. 

You  little  know, — and  for  this  you  may  well  thank 
Heaven — that  you  are  leaving  the  Spring  of  life,  and 
that  you  are  floating  fast  from  the  shady  sources  of 


110  DREAM-LIFE. 

your  years,  into  heat,  bustle,  and  storm.  Your  dreams 
are  now  faint,  flickering  shadows,  that  play  like  fire-flies 
in  the  coppices  of  leafy  June.  They  have  no  rule,  but 
the  rule  of  infantile  desire.  They  have  no  joys  to 
promise,  greater  than  the  joys  that  belong  to  your 
passing  life ;  they  -lave  no  terrors,  but  such  terrors  as 
the  darkness  of  a  Spring  night  makes.  They  do  not 
take  hold  on  your  soul,  as  the  dreams  of  youth  and 
manhood  will  do. 

Your  highest  hope  is  shadowed  in  a  cheerful,  boyish 
home.  You  wish  no  friends  but  the  friends  of  boy 
hood  ; — no  sister  but  your  fond  Nelly  ; — none  to  love 
better  than  the  playful  Madge. 

You  forget,  Clarence,  that  the  Spring  with  you,  is 
the  Spring  with  them  ;  and  that  the  storms  of  Summer 
may  chace  wide  shadows  over  your  path,  and  over 
their's.  And  you  forget,  that  SUMMER  is  even  now, 
lowering  with  its  mist,  and  with  its  scorching  rays,  upon 
the  hem  of  your  flowery  May ! 


The  hands  of  the  old  clock  upon  the  mantel, 

that  ticked  off  the  hours  when  Charlie  sighed,  and 
when  Charlie  died,  draw  on  toward  midnight.  The 
shadows  that  the  fire-flame  makes,  grow  dimmer 
and  dimmer.  And  thus  it  is,  that  Home,  boy-home, 
passes  away  forever, — like  the  swaying  of  a  pendulum, 
— like  the  fading  of  a  shadow  on  the  floor ! 


0ummer  ; 


flje  JDnams  of  Sjcmtl). 


DREAMS    OF    YOUTH. 


SUMMER. 

I  FEEL  a  great  deal  of  pity  for  those  honest,  but 
misguided  people,  who  call  their  little,  spruce 
suburban  towns,  or  the  shaded  streets  of  their  inland 
cities, — the  country :  and  I  have  still  more  pity 
for  those  who  reckon  a  season  at  the  summer  resorts — 
country  enjoyment.  Nay,  my  feeling  is  more  violent 
than  pity  ;  and  I  count  it  nothing  less  than  blasphemy, 
so  to  take  the  name  of  the  country  in  vain. 

I  thank  Heaven  every  summer's  day  of  my  life, 
that  my  lot  was  humbly  cast,  within  the  hearing  of 
romping  brooks,  and  beneath  the  shadow  of  oaks. 
And  from  all  the  tramp,  and  bustle  of  the  world,  into 
which  fortune  has  led  me  in  these  latter  years  of  my 
life,  I  delight  to  steal  away  for  days,  and  for  weeks 


114  DREAM- LIFE. 

together,  and  batlie  my  spirit  in  the  freedom  of  the  old 
woods;  and  to  grow  young  again,  lying  upon  the 
brook  side,  and  counting  the  white  clouds  that  sail 
along  the  sky,  softly  and  tranquilly — even  as  holy 
memories  go  stealing  over  the  vault  of  life. 

I  am  deeply  thankful  that  I  could  never  find  it 
in  my  heart,  so  to  pervert  truth,  as  to  call  the 
smart  villages  with  the  tricksy  shadow  of  their  maple 
avenues — the  Country. 

I  love  these  in  their  way;  and  can  recall  pleasant 
passages  of  thought,  as  I  have  idled  through  the 
Sabbath-looking  towns,  or  lounged  at  the  inn-door 
of  some  quiet  New  England  village.  But  I  love  far 
better  to  leave  them  behind  me ;  and  to  dash  boldly 
out  to  where  some  out-lying  farm-house  sits — like  a 
witness — under  the  shelter  of  wooded  hills,  or  nestles  in 
the  lap  of  a  noiseless  valley. 

In  the  town,  small  as  it  may  be,  and  darkened  as 
it  may  be  with  the  shadows  of  trees,  you  cannot 
forget — men.  Their  oice,  and  strife,  and  ambition 
come  to  your  eye  in  the  painted  paling,  in  the  swinging 
sign-board  of  the  tavern,  and — worst  of  all — in  the 
trim-printed  "ATTORNEY  AT  LAW."  Even  the  little 
milliner's  shop,  with  its  meagre  show  of  leghorns,  and 
its  string  across  the  window,  all  hung  with  tabs  and 
with  cloth  roses,  is  a  sad  epitome  of  the  great  and  con 
ventional  life  of  a  city  neighborhood. 


SUMME  R  .  115 

I  like  to  be  rid  of  them  all,  as  I  am  rid  of  tliem  this 
mid-summer's  day.  I  like  to  steep  my  soul  in  a  sea 
of  quiet,  with  nothing  floating  past  me  as  I  lie  moored 
to  my  thought,  but  the  perfume  of  flowers,  and  soaring 
birds,  and  shadows  of  clouds. 

Two  days  since,  I  was  sweltering  in  the  heat  of  the 
City,  jostled  by  the  thousand  eager  workers,  and  pant 
ing  under  the  shadow  of  the  walls.  But  I  have  stolen 
away;  and  for  two  hours  of  healthful  regrowth  into 
the  darling  Past,  I  have  been  lying  this  blessed  sum 
mer's  morning,  upon  the  grassy  bank  of  a  stream  that 

babbled    me    to  sleep   in    boyhood.    Dear,   old 

stream,  unchanging,  unfaltering, — with  no  harsher 
notes  now  than  then, — never  growing  old, — smiling  in 
your  silver  rustle,  and  calming  yourself  in  the  broad, 
placid  pools, — I  love  you,  as  I  love  a  friend  ! 

But  now,  that  the  sun  has  grown  scalding  hot, 
and  the  waves  of  heat  have  come  rocking  under  the 
shadow  of  the  meadow  oaks,  I  have  sought  shelter  in  a 
chamber  of  the  old  farm-house.  The  window-blinds 
are  closed ;  but  some  of  them  are  sadly  shattered,  and 
I  have  intertwined  in  them  a  few  branches  of  the 
late-blossoming,  white  Azalia,  so  that  every  puff  of  the 
summer  air  comes  to  me  cooled  with  fragrance.  A 
dimple  or  two  of  the  sunlight  still  steals  through  my 
flowery  screen,  and  dances  (as  the  breeze  moves  the 
branches)  upon  the  oaken  floor  of  the  farm-house. 


116  DREAM-LIFE. 

Through  one  little  gap  indeed,  I  can  see  the  broad 
stretch  of  meadow,  and  the  workmen  in  the  field 
bending  and  swaying  to  their  scythes.  I  can  see  too 
the  glistening  of  the  steel,  as  they  wipe  their  blades  ; 
and  can  just  catch  floating  on  the  air,  the  measured, 
tinkling  thwack  of  the  rifle  stroke. 

Here  and  there  a  lark,  scared  from  his  feeding  place 
in  the  grass,  soars  up,  bubbling  forth  his  melody  in 
globules  of  silvery  sound,  and  settles  upon  some  tall 
tree,  and  waves  his  wings,  and  sinks  to  the  swaying 
twigs.  I  hear  too  a  quail  piping  from  the  meadow 
fence,  and  another  trilling  his  answering  whistle  from 
the  hills.  Nearer  by,  a  tyrant  king-bird  is  poised  on 
the  topmost  branch  of  a  veteran  pear-tree ;  and  now 
and  then  dashes  down  assassin-like,  upon  some  home- 
bound,  honey-laden  bee,  and  then,  with  a  smack  of  his 
bill,  resumes  his  predatory  watch. 

A  chicken  or  two  lie  in  the  sun,  with  a  wing  and 
a  leg  stretched  out, — lazily  picking  at  the  gravel,  or 
relieving  their  ennui  from  time  to  time,  with  a  spas 
modic  rustle  of  their  feathers.  An  old,  matronly  hen 
stalks  about  the  yard  with  a  sedate  step ;  and  with 
quiet  self-assurance,  she  utters  an  occasional  series  of 
hoarse,  and  heated  clucks.  A  speckled  turkey,  with  an 
astonished  brood  at  her  heels,  is  eyeing  curiously,  and 
with  earnest  variations  of  the  head,  a  full-fed  cat,  that 


SUMMER.  llT 

lies  curled  up,  and  dozing,  upon  the  floor  of  the  cottage 
porch. 

As  I  sit  thus,  watching  through  the  interstices  of  my 
leafy  screen  the  various  images  of  country  life,  I  hear 
distant  mutterings  from  beyond  the  hills. 

The  sun  has  thrown  its  shadow  upon  the  pewter 
dial,  two  hours  beyond  the  meridian  line.  Great 
cream-colored  heads  of  thunder  clouds  are  lifting  above 
the  sharp,  clear  line  of  the  western  horizon :  the  light 
breeze  dies  away,  and  the  air  becomes  stifling,  even 
under  the  shadow  of  my  withered  boughs  in  the 
chamber  window.  The  white-capped  clouds  roll  up 
nearer  and  nearer  to  the  sun ;  and  the  creamy  masses 
below  grow  dark  in  their  seams.  The  mutterings 
that  came  faintly  before,  now  spread  into  wide  volumes 
of  rolling  sound,  that  echo  again,  and  again,  from  the 
eastward  heights. 

I  hear  in  the  deep  intervals,  the  men  shouting  to 
their  teams  in  the  meadows;  and  great  companies 
of  startled  swallows  are  dashing  in  all  directions  around 
the  gray  roofs  of  the  barn. 

The  clouds  have  now  well  nigh  reached  the  sun, 
which  seems  to  shine  the  fiercer  for  his  coming  eclipse. 
The  whole  West,  as  I  look  from  the  sources  of  the 
brook,  to  its  lazy  drift  under  the  swamps  that  lie  to 
the  South,  is  hung  with  a  curtain  of  darkness;  and 


118  DREAM-LIFE. 

like  swift-working,  golden  ropes  that  lift  it  toward  the 
Zenith,  long  chains  of  lightning  flash  through  it; 
and  the  growing  thunder  seems  like  the  rumble  of  the 
pulleys. 

I  thrust  away  my  azalia  boughs,  and  fling  back  the 
shattered  blinds  as  the  sun  and  the  clouds  meet ;  and 
my  room  darkens  with  the  coming  shadows.  For  an 
instant,  the  edges  of  the  thick  creamy  masses  of  cloud 
are  gilded  by  the  shrouded  sun,  and  show  gorgeous 
scollops  of  gold,  that  toss  upon  the  hem  of  the  storm. 
But  the  blazonry  fades  as  the  clouds  mount ;  and  the 
brightening  lines  of  the  lightning  dart  up  from  the 
lower  skirts,  and  heave  the  billowy  masses  into  the 
middle  Heaven. 

The  workmen  are  urging  their  oxen  fast  across  the 
meadow ;  and  the  loiterers  come  straggling  after,  with 
rakes  upon  their  shoulders.  The  matronly  hen  has 
retreated  to  the  stable  door ;  and  the  brood  of  turkeys 
stand,  dressing  their  feathers,  under  the  open  shed. 

The  air  freshens,  and  blows  now  from  the  face  of  the 
corning  clouds.  I  see  the  great  elms  in  the  plain 
swaying  their  tops,  even  before  the  storm  breeze  has 
reached  me ;  and  a  bit  of  ripened  grain  upon  a  swell 
of  the  meadow,  waves  and  tosses  like  a  billowy  sea. 

Presently,  I  hear  the  rush  of  the  wind;  and  the 
cherry  and  pear  trees  rustle  through  all  their  leaves; 
and  my  paper  is  whisked  away  by  the  intruding  blast. 


SUMMER.  119 

There  is  a  quiet  of  a  moment,  in  which  the  wind 
even,  seems  weary  and  faint;  and  nothing  finds 
utterance  save  one  hoarse  tree-toad,  doling  out  his 
lugubrious  notes. 

Now  comes  a  blinding  flash  from  the  clouds  ;  and  a 
quick,  sharp  clang  clatters  through  the  heavens,  and 
bellows  loud,  and  long  among  the  hills.  Then, — like 
great  grief,  spending  its  pent  agony  in  tears — come  the 
big  drops  of  rain  : — pattering  on  the  lawn,  and  on  the 
leaves,  and  most  musically  of  all,  upon  the  roof  above 
me; — not  now,  with  the  light  fall  of  the  SPRING 
shower,  but  with  strong  stoppings — like  the  first  proud 
tread  of  YOUTH  I 


C  L  o  ISTER  LIFE. 

IT  has  very  likely  occurred  to  you,  my  reader,  that  I 
am  playing  the  wanton  in  these  sketches; — and 
am  breaking  through  all  the  canons  of  the  writers,  in 
making  You  my  hero. 

It  is  even  so ;  for  my  work  is  a  story  of  those  vague 
feelings,  doubts,  passions,  which  belong  more  or  less  to 
every  man  of  us  all ;  and  therefore  it  is,  that  I  lay  upon 
your  shoulders  the  burden  of  these  dreams.  If  this  or 
that  one,  never  belonged  to  your  experience, — have 
patience  for  a  while.  I  feel  sure  that  others  are 
coming,  which  will  lie  like  a  truth  upon  your  heart ; 
and  draw  you  unwittingly— perhaps  tearfully  even — 
into  the  belief  that  You  are  indeed  my  hero. 

The  scene  now  changes  to  the  cloister  of  a  college ; — 


CLOISTER    LIFE.  121 

not  the  gray,  classic  cloisters  which  lie  along  the  banks 
of  the  Cam  or  the  Isis — huge,  battered  hulks,  on  whose 
weather-stained  decks,  great  captains  of  learning  have 
fought  away  their  lives  ;  nor  yet  the  cavernous, 
quadrangular  courts,  that  sleep  under  the  dingy  walls 
of  the  Sorbonne. 

The  youth-dreams  of  Clarence,  begin  under  the  roof 
of  one  of  those  long,  ungainly  piles  of  brick  and 
mortar,  which  make  the  colleges  of  New  England. 

The  floor  of  the  room  is  rough,  and  divided  by  wide 
seams.  The  study  table  does  not  stand  firmly,  without 
a  few  spare  pennies  to  prop  it  into  solid  footing.  The 
book-case  of  stained  fir-wood,  suspended  against  the 
wall  by  cords,  is  meagrely  stocked,  with  a  couple  of 
Lexicons,  a  pair  of  grammars,  a  Euclid,  a  Xenophon, 
a  Homer,  and  a  Livy.  Beside  these,  are  scattered 
about  here  and  there, — a  thumb-worn  copy  of  British 
ballads,  an  odd  volume  of  the  Sketch  Book,  a  clumsy 
Shakspeare,  and  a  pocket  edition  of  the  Bible. 

With  such  appliances,  added  to  the  half  score  of 
Professors  and  Tutors  who  preside  over  the  awful 
precincts,  you  are  to  work  your  way  up  to  that  proud 
entry  upon  our  American  life,  which  begins  with  the 
Baccalaureate  degree.  There  is  a  tingling  sensation 
in  walking  first  under  the  shadow  of  those  walls, 
uncouth  as  they  are,  and  in  feeling  that  you  belong  to 
them  ; — that  you  are  a  member,  as  it  were,  of  the  body 
G 


122  DREAM-LIFE. 

corporate,  subject  to  an  actual  code  of  printed  laws,  and 
to  actual  moneyed  fines — varying  from  a  shilling,  to  fifty 
cents ! 

There  is  something  exhilarating  in  the  very  con 
sciousness  of  your  subject  state ;  and  in  the  necessity  of 
measuring  your  hours  by  the  habit  of  such  a  learned 
community.  You  think  back  upon  your  respect  for  the 
lank  figure  of  some  old  teacher  of  boy  days,  as  a 
childish  weakness  :  even  the  little  coteries  of  the  home 
fire-side,  lose  their  importance,  when  compared  with  the 
extraordinary  sweep,  and  dignity  of  your  present 
position. 

It  is  pleasant  to  measure  yourself  with  men ;  and 
there  are  those  about  you,  who  seem  to  your  untaught 
eye,  to  be  men  already.  Your  chum,  a  hard-faced 
fellow  of  ten  more  years  than  you, — digging  sturdily  at 
his  tasks,  seems  by  that  very  community  of  work,  to 
dignify  your  labor.  You  watch  his  cold,  gray  eye 
bending  down  over  some  theorem  of  Euclid,  with  a 
kind  of  proud  companionship,  in  what  so  tasks  his 
manliness. 

It  is  nothing  for  him  to  quit  sleep  at  the  first 
tinkling  of  the  alarm  clock  that  hangs  in  your 
chamber ;  or  to  brave  the  weather,  in  that  cheerless  run 
to  the  morning  prayers  of  winter.  Yet,  with  what  a 
dreamy  horror,  you  wake  on  mornings  of  snow,  to  that 
tinkling  alarum  ! — and  glide  in  the  cold  and  darkness, 


CLOISTER    LIFE.  123 

under  the  shadow  of  the  college  walls : — shuddering 
under  the  sharp  gusts  that  come  sweeping  between  the 
buildings ; — and  afterward,  gathering  yourself  up  in 
your  cloak,  to  watch  in  a  sleepy,  listless  maze,  the 
flickering  lamps  that  hang  around  the  dreary  chapel ! 
You  follow  half  unconsciously  some  tutor's  rhetorical 
reading  of  a  chapter  of  Isaiah ;  and  then,  as  he  closes 
the  Bible  with  a  flourish,  your  eye,  half-open,  catches 
the  feeble  figure  of  the  old  Domine,  as  he  steps  to  the 
desk,  and  with  his  frail  hands  stretched  out  upon  the 
cover  of  the  big  book,  and  his  head  leaning  slightly  to 
one  side,  runs  through  in  gentle  and  tremulous  tones, 
his  wonted  form  of  Invocation. 

Your  Division  room  is  steaming  with  foul  heat,  and 
there  is  a  strong  smell  of  burnt  feathers,  and  oil.  A 
jaunty  tutor  with  pug  nose,  and  consequential  air,  steps 
into  the  room  —  while  you  all  rise  to  show  him 
deference, — and  takes  his  place  at  the  pulpit-like  desk. 
Then  come  the  formal  loosing  of  his  camlet  cloak  clasp, — 
the  opening  of  his  sweaty  Xenophon  to  where  the  day's 
parasangs  begin, — the  unsliding  of  his  silver  pencil 
case, — the  keen,  sour  look  around  the  benches,  and  the 
cool  pinch  of  his  thumb  and  forefinger,  into  the  fearful 
box  of  names ! 

How  you  listen  for  each  as  it  is  uttered, — running 
down  the  page  in  advance, — rejoicing  when  some  hard 
passage  comes  to  a  stout  man  in  the  corner ;  and  what 


124  DREAM-LIFE. 

a  sigh  of  relief — on  mornings  after  you  have  been  out 
late  at  night, — when  the  last  paragraph  is  reached, — 
the  ballot  drawn,  and — you,  safe  ! 

You  speculate  dreamily  upon  the  faces  around  you. 
You  wonder  what  sort  of  schooling  they  may  have  had, 
and  what  sort  of  homes.  You  think  one  man  has  got 
an  extraordinary  name  ;  and  another,  a  still  more 
extraordinary  nose.  The  glib,  easy  way  of  one  student, 
and  his  perfect  sang-froid,  completely  charm  you  :  you 
set  him  down  in  your  own  mind  as  a  kind  of  Crichton. 
Another  weazen-faced,  pinched-up  fellow  in  a  scant 
cloak,  you  think  must  have  been  sometime  a  school 
master  :  he  is  so  very  precise,  and  wears  such  an 
indescribable  look  of  the  ferule.  There  is  one  big 
student,  with  a  huge  beard,  and  a  rollicking  good- 
natured  eye,  who  you  would  quite  like  to  see  measure 
strength  with  your  old  usher  ;  and  on  careful  com 
parison,  rather  think  the  usher  would  get  the  worst  of 
it.  Another  appeal's  as  venerable  as  some  fathers  you 
have  seen ;  and  it  seems  wonderfully  odd,  that  a  man 
old  enough  to  have  children,  should  recite  Xenophon  by 
morning  candle-light ! 

The  class  in  advance,  you  study  curiously ;  and  are 
quite  amazed  at  the  precocity  of  certain  youths 
belonging  to  it,  who  are  apparently  about  your  own 
age.  The  Juniors  you  look  upon,  with  a  quiet  rever 
ence  for  their  aplomb,  and  dignity  of  character ;  and 


CLOISTER    LIFE.  J25 

look  forward  with  intense  yearnings,  to  the  time  when 
you  too,  shall  be  admitted  freely  to  the  precincts  of  the 
Philosophical  chamber,  and  to  the  very  steep  benches 
of  the  Laboratory.  This  last,  seems,  from  occasional 
peeps  through  the  blinds,  a  most  mysterious  building. 
The  chimneys,  recesses,  vats,  and  cisterns — to  say 
nothing  of  certain  galvanic  communications,  which  you 
are  told,  traverse  the  whole  building — in  a  way  capable 
of  killing  a  rat,  at  an  incredible  remove  from  the  bland 
professor, — utterly  fatigue  your  wonder  !  You  humbly 
trust — though  you  have  doubts  upon  the  point — that 
you  will  have  the  capacity  to  grasp  it  all,  when  onco 
you  shall  have  arrived  at  the  dignity  of  a  Junior. 

As  for  the  Seniors,  your  admiration  for  them  is 
entirely  boundless.  In  one  or  two  individual  instances, 
it  is  true,  it  has  been  broken  down,  by  an  unfortunate 
squabble,  with  thick  set  fellows  in  the  Chapel  aisle. 
A  person  who  sits  not  far  before  you  at  prayers, 
and  whose  name  you  seek  out  very  early,  bears  a 
strong  resemblance  to  some  portrait  of  Dr.  Johnson; 
you  have  veiy  much  the  same  kind  of  respect  for  him, 
that  you  feel  for  the  great  lexicographer ;  and  do  not 
for  a  moment  doubt  his  capacity  to  compile  a 
Dictionary  equal  if  not  superior  to  Johnson's. 

Another  man  with  very  bushy,  black  hair,  and  an 
easy  look  of  importance,  carries  a  large  cane ;  and  is 
represented  to  you,  as  an  astonishing  scholar,  and 


126  DREAM-LIFE. 

speaker.  You  do  not  doubt  it ;  his  very  air  proclaims 
it.  You  think  of  him,  as,  presently — (say  four  or  five 
years  hence) — astounding  the  United  States  Senate 
with  his  eloquence.  And  when  once  you  have  heard 
him  in  debate,  with  that  ineffable  gesture  of  his,  you 
absolutely  languish  in  your  admiration  for  h/m ;  and 
you  describe  his  speaking  to  your  country  friends,  as 
very  little  inferior,  if  any,  to  Mr.  Burke's.  Beside 
this  one,  are  some  half  dozen  others,  among  whom  the 
question  of  superiority  is,  you  understand,  strongly 
mooted.  It  puzzles  you  to  think,  what  an  avalanche 
of  talent  will  fall  upon  the  country,  at  the  graduation 
of  those  Seniors ! 

You  will  find,  however,  that  the  countiy  bears 
such  inundations  of  college  talent,  with  a  remarkable 
degree  of  equanimity.  It  is  quite  wonderful  how  all 
the  Burkes,  and  Scotts,  and  Peels,  among  college 
Seniors,  do  quietly  disappear,  as  a  man  gets  on  in  life. 

As  for  any  degree  of  fellowship  with  such  giants, 
it  is  an  honor  hardly  to  be  thought  of.  But  you  have 
a  classmate — I  will  call  him  Dalton, — who  is  very 
intimate  with  a  dashing  Senior ;  they  room  near  each 
other  outside  the  college.  You  quite  envy  Dalton, 
and  you  come  to  know  him  well.  He  says  that  you 
are  not  a  '  green-one,'  — that  you  have  *  cut  your  eye 
teeth' ;  in  return  for  which  complimentary  opinions,  you 
entertain  a  strong  friendship  for  Dalton. 


CLOISTER    LIFE.  127 

He  is  a  '  fast,  fellow,  as  the  Senior  calls  him ;  and  it 
is  a  proud  thing  to  happen  at  their  rooms  occasionally, 
and  to  match  yourself  for  an  hour  or  two  (with  the 
windows  darkened)  against  a  Senior  at  *  old  sledge.' 
It  is  quite  *  the  thing'  as  Dalton  says,  to  meet  a  Senior 
familiarly  in  the  street.  Sometimes  you  go,  after 
Dalton  has  taught  you  '  the  ropes,'  to  have  a  cosy  sit- 
down  over  oysters  and  champagne  ; — to  which  the 
Senior  lends  himself,  with  the  pleasantest  condescension 
in  the  world.  You  are  not  altogether  used  to  hard 
drinking ;  but  this,  you  conceal, — as  most  spirited  young 
fellows  do, — by  drinking  a  great  deal.  You  have  a 
dim  recollection  of  certain  circumstances — very  unim 
portant,  yet  very  vividly  impressed  on  your  mind, — 
which  occurred  on  one  of  these  occasions. 

The  oysters  were  exceedingly  fine,  and  the  cham 
pagne — exquisite.  You  have  a  recollection  of  some 
thing  being  said,  toward  the  end  of  the  first  bottle,  of 
Xenophon,  and  of  the  Senior's  saying  in  his  playful 
way, — *  Oh,  d — n  Xenophon !' 

You  remember  Dalton  laughed  at  this ;  and  you 
laughed — for  company.  You  remember  that  you 
thought,  and  Dalton  thought,  and  the  Senior  thought — 
by  a  singular  coincidence,  that  the  second  bottle  of 
champagne  was  better  even  than  the  first.  You 
have  a  dim  remembrance  of  the  Senior's  saying  very 
loudly,  *'  Clarence — (calling  you  by  your  family  name) 


128  DREAM-LIFE. 

is  no  spooney;"  and  drinking  a  bumper  with  you  in 
confirmation  of  the  remark. 

You  remember  that  Dalton  broke  out  into  a  song, 
and  that  for  a  time  you  joined  in  the  chorus ;  you 
think  the  Senior  called  you  to  order  for  repeating 
the  chorus,  in  the  wrong  place.  You  think  the  lights 
burned  with  remarkable  brilliancy  ;  and  you  remember 
that  a  remark  of  yours  to  that  effect,  met  with  very 
much  such  a  response  from  the  Senior,  as  he  had 
before  employed  with  reference  to  Xenophon. 

You  have  a  confused  idea  of  calling  Dalton — 
Xenophon*  You  think  the  meeting  broke  up  with 
a  chorus ;  and  that  somebody — you  cannot  tell  who — 
broke  two  or  three  glasses.  You  remember  question 
ing  yourself  very  seriously,  as  to  whether  you  were? 
or  were  not,  tipsy.  You  think  you  decided  that  you 
were  not,  but — might  be. 

You  have  a  confused  recollection  of  leaning  upon 
some  one,  or  something,  going  to  your  room;  this 
sense  of  a  desire  to  lean,  you  think  was  very  strong. 
You  remember  being  horribly  afflicted  with  the  idea 
of  having  tried  your  night  key  at  the  tutor's  door, 
instead  of  your  own ;  you  remember  further  a  hot 
stove, — made  certain  indeed,  by  a  large  blister  which 
appeared  on  your  hand,  next  day.  You  think  of 
throwing  off  your  clothes,  by  one  or  two  spasmodic 
efforts, — leaning,  in  the  intervals,  against  the  bed-post. 


CLOISTER    LIFE.  129 

There  is  a  recollection  of  an  uncommon  dizziness 
afterward — as  if  your  body  was  very  quiet,  and  your 
head  gyrating  with  strange  velocity,  and  a  kind  of 
centrifugal  action,  all  about  the  room,  and  the  college, 
and  indeed  the  whole  town.  You  think  that  you  felt 
uncontrollable  nausea  after  this,  followed  by  positive 
sickness  ; — which  waked  your  chum,  who  thought  you 
very  incoherent,  and  feared  derangement. 

A  dismal  state  of  lassitude  follows,  broken  by  the 
college  clock  striking  three,  and  by  very  rambling 
reflections  upon  champagne,  Xenophon,  *  Captain 
Dick,'  Madge,  and  the  old  deacon  who  clinched  his 
wig  in  the  church. 

The  next  morning — (ah,  how  vexatious  that  all  our 
follies  are  followed  by  a — *  next  morning  !')  you 
wake  with  a  parched  mouth,  and  a  torturing  thirst; 
the  sun  is  shining  broadly  into  your  reeking  chamber. 
Prayers  and  recitations  are  long  ago  over ;  and  you 
see  through  the  door,  in  the  outer  room,  that  hard 
faced  chum,  with  his  Lexicon,  and  Livy,  open  before 
him,  working  out  with  all  the  earnestness  of  his  iron 
purpose,  the  steady  steps  toward  preferment,  and 
success. 

You  go  with  some  story  of  sudden  sickness  to  the 
Tutor ; — half  fearful  that  the  bloodshot,  swollen  eyes 
will  betray  you.  It  is  very  mortifying  too,  to  meet 
Dal  ton  appearing  so  gay,  and  lively  after  it  all,  while 


130  DREAM   LIFE. 

you  wear  such  an  air  of  being  *  used  up/     You  envy 
him  thoroughly  the  extraordinary  capacity  that  he  has. 

Here  and  there  creeps  in,  amid  all  the  pride  and 
shame  of  the  new  life,  a  tender  thought  of  the  old 
home ;  but  its  joys  are  joys  no  longer :  its  highest 
aspirations  even,  have  resolved  themselves  into  fine 
mist, — like  rainbows,  that  the  sun  drinks  with  his 
beams. 

The  affection  for  a  mother,  whose  kindness  you  recal 
with  a  suffused  eye,  is  not  gone,  or  blighted  ;  but  it  is 
woven  up,  as  only  a  single  adorning  tissue,  into  the 
growing  pride  of  youth :  it  is  cherished  in  the  proud 
soul,  rather  as  a  redeeming  weakness,  than  as  a  vital 
energy. 

And  the  love  for  Nelly,  though  it  bates  no  jot  of 
fervor,  is  woven  into  the  scale  of  growing  purposes, 
rather  as  a  color  to  adorn,  than  as  a  strand  to 
strengthen. 

As  for  your  other  loves,  those  romantic  ones,  which 
were  kindled  by  bright  eyes,  and  the  stolen  reading  of 
Miss  Porter's  novels,  they  linger  on  your  mind  like 
perfumes  ;  and  they  float  down  your  memory,  with  the 
figure,  the  step,  the  last  words  of  those  young  girls,  who 
raised  them, — like  the  types  of  some  dimly-shadowed, 
but  deeper  passion,  which  is  some  time  to  spur  your 
maturer  purposes,  and  to  quicken  your  manly  resolves. 

It  would  be  hard  to  tell,  for  you  do  not  as  yet  know, 


CLOISTER    LIFE.  131 

but  that  Madge  herself, — hoydenish,  blue-eyed  Madge,  is 
to  be  the  very  one  who  will  gain  such  hold  upon  your 
riper  affections,  as  she  has  held  already  over  your 
boyish  caprice.  It  is  a  part  of  the  pride, — I  may  say 
rather  an  evidence  of  the  pride,  which  youth  feels  in 
leaving  boyhood  behind  him,  to  talk  laughingly,  and 
carelessly,  of  those  attachments  which  made  his  young 
years  so  balmy  with  dreams. 


IL 

FIRST    AMBITION. 

I  BELIEVE  that  sooner  or  later,  there  come  to 
every  man,  dreams  of  ambition.  They  may  be 
covered  with  the  sloth  of  habit,  or  with  a  pretence  of 
humility :  they  may  come  only  in  dim,  shadowy  visions, 
that  feed  the  eye,  like  the  glories  of  an  ocean  sun-rise  ; 
but,  you  may  be  sure  that  they  will  come  :  even  before 
one  is  aware,  the  bold,  adventurous  Goddess,  whose 
name  is  Ambition,  and  whose  dower  is  Fame,  will  be 
toying  with  the  feeble  heart.  And  she  pushes  her 
ventures  with  a  bold  hand  :  she  makes  timidity  strong, 
and  weakness  valiant. 

The  way  of  a  man's  heart,  will  be  foreshadowed  by 
what  goodness  lies  in  him, — coming  from  above,  and 
from  around  ; — but  a  way  foreshadowed,  is  not  a  way 


FIRST    AMBITION.  133 

made.  And  the  making  of  a  man's  way,  comes  only 
from  that  quickening  of  resolve,  which  we  call  Ambition. 
It  is  the  spur  that  makes  man  struggle  with  Destiny  : 
it  is  Heaven's  own  incentive,  to  make  Purpose  great, 
and  Achievement  greater. 

It  would  be  strange  if  you,  in  that  cloister  life  of  a 
college,  did  not  sometimes  feel  a  dawning  of  flew 
resolves.  They  grapple  you  indeed,  oftener  than  you 
dare  to  speak  of.  Here,  you  dream  first  of  that  very 
sweet,  but  very  shadowy  success,  called  reputation. 

You  think  of  the  delight  and  astonishment,  it  would 
give  your  mother  and  father,  and  most  of  all,  little 
Nelly,  if  you  were  winning  such  honors,  as  now  escape 
you.  You  measure  your  capacities  by  those  about  you, 
and  watch  their  habit  of  study ;  you  gaze  for  a  half 
hour  together,  upon  some  successful  man,  who  has  won 
his  prizes;  and  wonder  by  what  secret  action  he  has 
done  it.  And  when,  in  time,  you  come  to  be  a  com 
petitor  yourself,  your  anxiety  is  immense. 

You  spend  hours  upon  hours  at  your  theme. 
You  write  and  re- write ;  and  when  it  is  at  length 
complete,  and  out  of  your  hands,  you  are  harassed 
by  a  thousand  doubts.  At  times,  as  you  recal  your 
hours  of  toil,  you  question  if  so  much  has  been  spent 
upon  any  other;  you  feel  almost  certain  of  success. 
You  repeat  to  yourself,  some  passages  of  special 
eloquence,  at  night.  You  fancy  the  admiration  of 


134  DREAM -LiFE. 

the  Professors  at  meeting  with  such  wonderful  per 
formance.  You  have  a  slight  fear  that  its  superior 
goodness  may  awaken  the  suspicion,  that  some  one 
out  of  the  college — some  superior  man,  may  have 
written  it.  But  this  fear  dies  away. 

The  eventful  day  is  a  great  one  in  your  calendar ; 
you  hardly  sleep  the  night  previous.  You  tremble 
as  the  Chapel  bell  is  rang;  you  profess  to  be  very 
indifferent,  as  the  reading,  and  the  prayer  close ;  you 
even  stoop  to  take  up  your  hat, — as  if  you  had  entirely 
overlooked  the  fact,  that  the  old  President  was  in  the 
desk,  for  the  express  purpose  of  declaring  the  suc 
cessful  names.  You  listen  dreamily  to  his  tremulous, 
yet  fearfully  distinct  enunciation.  Your  head  swims 
strangely. 

They  all  pass  out  with  a  harsh  murmur,  along 
the  aisles,  and  through  the  door  ways.  It  would 
be  well  if  there  were  no  disappointments  in  life  more 
terrible  than  this.  It  is  consoling  to  express  very 
deprecating  opinions  of  the  Faculty  in  general; — and 
very  contemptuous  ones  of  that  particular  officer  who 
decided  upon  the  merit  of  the  prize  themes.  An 
evening  or  two  at  Dalton's  room  go  still  farther  toward 
healing  the  disappointment ;  and — if  it  must  be  said — 
toward  moderating  the  heat  of  your  ambition. 

You  grow  up  however,  unfortunately,  as  the  College 
years  fly  by,  into  a  very  exaggerated  sense  of  your 


FIRST    AMBITION.  135 

own  capacities.  Even  the  good,  old,  white-haired 
Squire,  for  whom  you  had  once  entertained  so  much 
respect,  seems  to  yout  crazy,  classic  fancy,  a  very 
hum-drum  sort  of  personage.  Frank,  although  as 
noble  a  fellow  as  ever  sat  a  horse,  is  yet — you  cannot 
help  thinking — very  ignorant  of  Euripides;  even  the 
English  master  at  Dr.  Bidlow's  school,  you  feel  'sure 
would  balk  at  a  dozen  problems  you  could  give  him. 

You  get  an  exalted  idea  of  that  uncertain  quality, 
which  turns  the  heads  of  a  vast  many  of  your  fellows, 
called — Genius.  An  odd  notion  seems  to  be  inherent  in 
the  atmosphere  of  those  College  chambers,  that  there  is 
a  certain  faculty  of  mind — first  developed  as  would 
seem  in  Colleges, — which  accomplishes  whatever  it 
chooses,  without  any  special  pains-taking.  For  a  time, 
you  fall  yourself  into  this  very  unfortunate  hallucina 
tion  ;  you  cultivate  it,  after  the  usual  college  fashion, 
by  drinking  a  vast  deal  of  strong  coffee,  and  whiskey 
toddy, — by  writing  a  little  poor  verse,  in  the  Byronic 
temper,  and  by  studying  very  late  at  night,  with 
closed  blinds. 

It  costs  you,  however,  more  anxiety  and  hypocrisy 
than  you  could  possibly  have  believed. 

You  will  learn,  Clarence,  when  the  Autumn 

has  rounded  your  hopeful  Summer,  if  not  before,  that 
there  is  no  Genius  in  life,  like  the  Genius  of  energy  and 
industry.  You  will  learn,  that  all  the  traditions  so 


136  DREAM-LIFE. 

current  among  very  young  men,  that  certain  great 
characters  have  wrought  their  greatness  by  an  inspiration 
as  it  were,  grow  out  of  a  sad  mistake. 

And  you  will  further  find,  when  you  come  to 
measure  yourself  with  men,  that  there  are  no  rivals 
so  formidable,  as  those  earnest,  determined  minds, 
which  reckon  the  value  of  every  hour,  and  which 
achieve  eminence  by  persistent  application. 

Literary  ambition  may  inflame  you  at  certain  periods ; 
and  a  thought  of  some  great  names  will  flash  like 
a  spark  into  the  mine  of  your  purposes ;  you  dream  till 
midnight  over  books ;  you  set  up  shadows,  and  chase 
them  down — other  shadows,  and  they  fly.  Dreaming 
will  never  catch  them.  Nothing  makes  the  *  scent  lie 
well,'  in  the  hunt  after  distinction,  but  labor. 

And  it  is  a  glorious  thing,  when  once  you  are  weary 
of  the  dissipation,  and  the  ennui  of  your  own  aimless 
thought,  to  take  up  some  glowing  page  of  an  earnest 
thinker,  and  read — deep,  and  long,  until  you  feel  the 
metal  of  his  thought  tinkling  on  your  brain,  and  striking 
out  from  your  flinty  lethargy,  flashes  of  ideas,  that  give 
the  mind  light  and  heat.  And  away  you  go,  in  the 
chase  of  what  the  soul  within,  is  creating  on  the  instant, 
and  you  wonder  at  the  fecundity  of  what  seemed  so 
barren,  and  at  the  ripeness  of  what  seemed  so  crude. 
The  glow  of  toil  wakes  you  to  the  consciousness  of 
your  real  capacities  :  you  feel  sure  that  they  have 


FIRST    AMBITION.  137 

taken  a  new  step  toward  final  development.  In  such 
mood  it  is,  that  one  feels  grateful  to  the  musty  tomes, 
which  at  other  hours,  stand  like  curiosity-making 
mummies,  with  no  warmth,  and  no  vitality.  Now 
they  grow  into  the  affections  like  new-found  friends ; 
and  gain  a  hold  upon  the  heart,  and  light  a  fire  in  the 
brain,  that  the  years  and  the  mould  cannot  cover,  nor 
quench. 


III. 

COLLEGE    ROMANCE. 

IN  following  the  mental  vagaries  of  youth,  I  must 
not  forget  the  curvetings  and  wiltings  of  the  heart. 
The  black-eyed  Jenny,  with  whom  a  correspondence 
at  red  heat,  was  kept  up  for  several  weeks,  is  long 
before  this,  entirely  out  of  your  regard  ; — not  so  much 
by  reason  of  the  six  months  disparity  of  age,  as  from 
the  fact,  communicated  quite  confidentially  by  the 
travelled  Nat,  that  she  has  had  a  desperate  flirtation 
with  a  handsome  midshipman.  The  conclusion  is 
natural,  that  she  is  an  inconstant,  cruel-hearted  creature, 
with  little  appreciation  of  real  worth ;  and  further 
more,  that  all  midshipmen  are  a  very  contemptible,  not 
to  say, — dangerous  set  of  men.  She  is  consigned  to 
forgetfulness  and  neglect ;  and  the  late  lover  has  long 


COLLEGE    ROMANCE.  139 

ago  consoled  himself,  by  reading  in  a  spirited  way,  that 
passage  of  Childe  Harold,  commencing, — 

I  have  not  loved  the  world,  nor  the  world  me. 

As  for  Madge,  the  memory  of  her  has  been  mae 
wakeful,  but  less  violent.  To  say  nothing  of  occasional 
returns  to  the  old  homestead  when  you  have  met  her, 
Nelly's  letters  not  unfrequently  drop  a  careless  half- 
sentence,  that  keeps  her  strangely  in  mind. 

*  Madge,'  she  says,  '  is  sitting  by  me  with  her  work ; 
or,  *  you  ought  to  see  the  little,  silk  purse  that  Madge 
is  knitting;'  or,  speaking  of  some  country  rout — 
'Madge  was  there  in  the  sweetest  dress  you  can 
imagine.'  All  this  will  keep  Madge  in  mind  ;  not  it  is 
true  in  the  ambitious  moods,  or  in  the  frolics  with 
Dalton ;  but  in  those  odd  half  hours  that  come  stealing 
over  one  at  twilight,  laden  with  sweet  memories  of  the 
days  of  old. 

A  new  Romantic  admiration  is  started  by  those  pale 
lady-faces  which  light  up,  on  a  Sunday,  the  gallery  of 
the  college  chapel.  An  amiable  and  modest  fancy, 
gives  to  them  all  a  sweet  classic  grace.  The  very 
atmosphere  of  those  courts,  wakened  with  high  meta- 
physic  discourse,  seems  to  lend  them  a  Greek  beauty, 
and  finesse ;  and  you  attach  to  the  prettiest  that  your 
eye  can  reach,  all  the  charms  of  some  Sciote  maiden, 


140  DREAM-LIFE. 

and  all  the  learning  of  her  father — the  Professor. 
And  as  you  lie  half-wakeful,  and  half-dreaming,  through 
the  long  Divisions  of  the  Doctor's  morning  discourse, 
the  twinkling  eyes  in  soma  corner  of  the  gallery,  bear 
you  pleasant  company,  as  you  float  down  those 
streaming  visions,  which  radiate  from  you,  far  over  the 
track  of  the  coming  life. 

But  following  very  closely  upon  this,  comes  a  whole 
volume  of  street  romance.  There  are  prettily  shaped 
figures  that  go  floating,  at  convenient  hours  for  college 
observation,  along  the  thoroughfares  of  the  town.  And 
these  figures  come  to  be  known,  and  the  dresses,  and 
the  streets ;  and  even  the  door-plate  is  studied.  The 
hours  are  ascertained,  by  careful  observation,  and 
induction,  at  which  some  particular  figure  is  to  be  met ; 
or  is  to  be  seen  at  some  low  parlor  window,  in  white 
summer  dress,  with  head  leaning  on  the  hand, — very 
melancholy,  and  very  dangerous.  Perhaps  her  very 
card  is  stuck  proudly  into  a  corner  of  the  mirror,  in  the 
college  chamber.  After  this  may  come  moonlight 
meetings  at  the  gate,  or  long  listenings  to  the  plaintive 
lyrics  that  steal  out  of  the  parlor  windows,  and  that 
blur  wofully  the  text  of  the  Conic  Sections. 

Or,  perhaps  she  is  under  the  fierce  eye  of  some 
Cerberus  of  a  school  mistress,  about  whose  grounds 
you  prowl  piteously,  searching  for  small  knot  holes 
in  the  surrounding  board-fence,  through  which  little 


COLLEGE    ROMANCE.  141 

souvenirs  of  impassioned  feeling  may  be  thrust. 
Sonnets  are  written  for  the  town  papers,  full  of  telling 
phrases,  and  with  classic  allusions,  and  foot  notes,  which 
draw  attention  to  some  similar  felicity  of  expression  in 
Horace,  or  Ovid.  Correspondence  may  even  be  ven 
tured  on,  enclosing  locks  of  hair,  and  interchanging 
rings,  and  paper  oaths  of  eternal  fidelity. 

But  the  old  Cerberus  is  very  wakeful :  the  letters 
fail :  the  lamp  that  used  to  glimmer  for  a  sign  among 
the  sycamores,  is  gone  out :  a  stolen  wave  of  a 
handkerchief, — a  despairing  look, — and  tears,  which 
you  fancy,  but  do  not  see, — make  you  miserable  for 
long  days. 

The  tyrant  teacher,  with  no  trace  of  compassion  in 
her  withered  heart,  reports  you  to  the  college  authorities. 
There  is  a  long  lecture  of  admonition  upon  the  folly  of 
such  dangerous  practices ;  and  if  the  offence  be  aggra 
vated  by  some  recent  joviality  with  Dal  ton  and  the 
Senior,  you  are  condemned  to  a  month  of  exile  with  a 
country  clergyman.  There  are  a  few  tearful  regrets 
over  the  painful  tone  of  the  home  letters ;  but  the 
bracing  country  air,  and  the  p^tty  faces  of  the  village 
girls  heal  your  heart, — with  fresh  wounds. 

The  old  Doctor  sees  dimly  through  his  spectacles  ; 
and  his  pew  gives  a  good  look  out  upon  the  smiling 
choir  of  singers.  A  collegian  wears  the  honors  of  a 
stranger  ;  and  the  country  bucks  stand  but  poor  chance 


142  DREAM-LIFE. 

in  contrast  with  your  wonderful  attainments  in  cravats 
and  verses.  But  this  fresh  dream,  odorous  with  its 
memories  of  sleigh-rides,  or  lilac  blossoms,  slips  by,  and 
yields  again  to  the  more  ambitious  dreams  of  the 
cloister. 

In  the  prouder  moments  that  come,  when  you  are 
more  a  man,  and  less  a  boy — with  more  of  strategy 
and  less  of  faith — your  thought  of  woman  runs  loftily : 
not  loftily  in  the  realm  of  virtue  or  goodness,  but  loftily 
on  your  new  world-scale.  The  pride  of  intellect  that  is 
thirsting  in  you,  fashions  ideal  graces  after  a  classic 
model.  The  heroines  of  fable  are  admired ;  and  the 
soul  is  tortured  with  that  intensity  of  passion,  which 
gleams  through  the  broken  utterances  of  Grecian 
tragedy. 

In  the  vanity  of  self-consciousness,  one  feels  at  a  long 
remove  above  the  ordinary  love  and  trustfulness  of  a 
simple  and  pure  heart.  You  turn  away  from  all  such 
with  a  sigh  of  conceit,  to  graze  on  that  lofty,  but  bitter 
pasturage,  where  no  daisies  grow.  Admiration  may  be 
called  up  by  some  graceful  figure  that  you  see  moving 
under  those  sweeping  elms  ;  and  you  follow  it  with  an 
intensity  of  look  that  makes  you  blush  ;  and  straight 
way,  hide  the  memory  of  the  blush,  by  summing  up 
some  artful  sophistry,  that  resolves  your  delighted 
gaze  into  a  weakness,  and  your  contempt  into  a  virtue. 

But   this   cannot   last.     As   the   years   drop   off,  a 


COLLEGE    ROMANCE.  143 

certain  pair  of  eyes  beam  one  day  upon  you,  that  seem 
to  have  been  cut  out  of  a  page  of  Greek  poetry.  They 
have  all  its  sentiment,  its  fire,  its  intellectual  reaches :  it 
would  be  hard  to  say  what  they  have  not.  The  profile, 
is  a  Greek  profile ;  and  the  heavy  chestnut  hair  is 
plaited  in  Greek  bands.  The  figure  too,  might  easily 
be  that  of  Helen,  or  of  Andromache. 

You  gaze — ashamed  to  gaze  ;  and  your  heart  yearns 
— ashamed  of  its  yearning.  It  is  no  young  girl,  who  is 
thus  testing  you :  there  is  too  much  pride  for  that. 
A.  ripeness,  and  maturity  rest  upon  her  look,  and 
figure,  that  completely  fill  up  that  ideal,  which 
exaggerated  fancies  have  wrought  out  of  the  Grecian 
heaven.  The  vision  steals  upon  you  at  all  hours, — 
DOW  rounding  its  flowing  outline  to  the  mellifluous 
metre  of  Epic  Hexameter,  and  again,  with  its  bounding 
life,  pulsating  with  the  glorious  dashes  of  tragic  verse. 

Yet,  with  the  exception  of  stolen  glances,  and  secret 
admiration,  you  keep  aloof.  There  is  no  wish  to 
fathom  what  seems  a  happy  mystery.  There  lies  a 
content  in  secret  obeisance.  Sometimes  it  shames  you. 
as  your  mind  glows  with  its  fancied  dignity ;  but  the 
heart  thrusts  in  its  voice ;  and  yielding  to  it,  you  dream 
dreams,  like  fond,  old  Boccacio's,  upon  the  olive-shaded 
slopes  of  Italy.  The  tongue  even,  is  not  trusted  with 
the  thoughts  that  are  seething  within  :  they  begin  and 
end  in  the  voiceless  pulsations  of  your  nature. 


144-  DREAM-LIFE. 

After  a  time, — it  seems  a  long  time,  but  it  is  in 
truth,  a  very  short  time, — you  find  who  she  is,  who  is 
thus  entrancing  you.  It  is  done  most  carelessly.  No 
creature  could  imagine  that  you  felt  any  interest  in  the 
accomplished  sister — of  your  friend  Dalton.  Yet  it  is 
even  she,  who  has  thus  beguiled  you ;  and  she  is  at 
least  some  ten  years  Dalton's  senior ;  and  by  even  more 
years, — your  own ! 

It  is  singular  enough,  but  it  is  true, — that  the  affec 
tions  of  that  transition  state  from  youth  to  manliness, 
run  toward  the  types  of  maturity.  The  mind  in  its 
reaches  toward  strength,  and  completeness,  creates  a 
heart-sympathy — which,  in  its  turn,  craves  fullness. 
There  is  a  vanity  too  about  the  first  steps  of  manly 
education,  which  is  disposed  to  under-rate  the  innocence, 
and  unripened  judgment  of  the  other  sex.  Men  see 
the  mistake,  as  they  grow  older  ; — for  the  judgment 
of  a  woman,  in  all  matters  of  the  affections,  ripens  by 
ten  years,  faster  than  a  man's. 

In  place  of  any  relentings  on  such  score,  you  are 
set  on  fire  anew.  The  stories  of  her  accomplishments, 
and  of  her  grace  of  conversation,  absolutely  drive  you 
mad.  You  watch  your  occasion  for  meeting  her  upon 
the  street.  You  wonder  if  she  has  any  conception 
of  your  capacity  for  mental  labor ;  and  if  she  has  any 
adequate  idea  of  your  admiration  for  Greek  poetry, 
and  for  herself? 


COLLEGE    ROMANCE.  145 

You  tie  your  cravat  poet-wise,  and  wear  broad 
collars,  turned  down,  wondering  how  such  disposition 
may  affect  her.  Her  figure  and  step  become  a  kind 
of  moving  romance  to  you,  drifting  forward,  arid 
outward  into  that  great  land  of  dreams,  which  you 
call  the  world.  When  you  see  her  walking  with 
others,  you  pity  her ;  and  feel  perfectly  sure  that  if 
she  had  only  a  hint  of  that  intellectual  fervor  which 
in  your  own  mind,  blazes  up  at  the  very  thought 
of  her,  she  would  perfectly  scorn  the  stout  gentleman 
who  spends  his  force  in  tawdry  compliments. 

A  visit  to  your  home  wakens  ardor,  by  contrast, 
as  much  as  by  absence.  Madge,  so  gentle,  and  now 
stealing  sly  looks  at  you,  in  a  way  so  different  from 
her  hoydenish  manner  of  school-days,  you  regard 
complacently,  as  a  most  lovable,  fond  girl — the  very 
one  for  some  fond  and  amiable  young  man,  whose  soul 
is  not  filled — as  yours  is — with  higher  things !  To 
Nelly,  earnestly  listening,  you  drop  only  exaggerated 
hints  of  the  wonderful  beauty,  and  dignity  of  this  new 
being  of  your  fancy.  Of  her  age,  you  scrupulously  say 
nothing. 

The  trivialities  of  Dalton  amaze  you ;  it  is  hard  to 

understand    how   a   man    within    the   limit   of    such 

influences,  as  Miss  Dalton  must   inevitably  exert,  can 

tamely  sit  down   to   a   rubber  of  whist,  and   cigars ! 

7 


146  DUE  AM -LIFE. 

There  must  be  a  sad  lack  of  congeniality;  it  would 
certainly  be  a  proud  thing  to  supply  that  lack ! 

The  new  feeling,  wild  and  vague  as  it  is, — for  as  yet, 
you  have  only  most  casual  acquaintance  with  Laura 
Dalton, — invests  the  whole  habit  of  your  study;  not 
quickening  overmuch  the  relish  for  Dugald  Stewart,  or 
the  miserable  skeleton  of  college  Logic ;  but  spending 
a  sweet  charm  upon  the  graces  of  "Rhetoric,  and  the 
music  of  Classic  Verse.  It  blends  harmoniously  with 
your  quickened  ambition.  There  is  some  last  appear 
ance  that  you  have  to  make  upon  the  College  stage, 
in  the  presence  of  the  great  worthies  of  the  state,  and 
of  all  the  beauties  of  the  town, — Laura  chiefest  among 
them.  In  view  of  it,  you  feel  dismally  intellectual. 
Prodigious  faculties  are  to  be  brought  to  the  task. 

You  think  of  throwing  out  ideas  that  will  quite 
startle  His  Excellency  the  Governor,  and  those  very 
distinguished  public  characters,  whom  the  College 
purveyors  vote  into  their  periodic  public  sittings.  You 
are  quite  sure  of  surprising  them,  and  of  deeply  pro 
voking  such  scheming,  shallow  politicians,  as  have  never 
read  '  Wayland's  Treatise ;'  and  who  venture  incautiously, 
within  hearing  of  your  remarks.  You  fancy  youi-self  in 
advance,  the  victim  of  a  long  leader  in  the  next  day's 
paper ;  and  the  thoughtful,  but  qui-?t  cause  of  a  great 
change  in  the  political  programme  of  the  State.  But 
crowning  and  eclipsing  all  the  triumph,  are  those  dark 


COLLEGE    ROMANCE.  147 

eyes  beaming  on  you  from  some  corner  of  the  Church, 
their  floods  of  unconscious  praise  and  tenderness. 

Your  father  and  Nelly  are  there  to  greet  you.  He 
has  spoken  a  few  calm,  }uiet  words  of  encouragement, 
that  make  you  feel — very  wrongfully — that  he  is  a 
cold  man,  with  no  earnestness  of  feeling.  As  for  Nelly, 
she  clasps  your  arm  with  a  fondness,  and  with  a  pride, 
that  tell  at  every  step,  her  praises  and  her  love. 

But  even  this,  true  and  healthful  as  it  is,  fades 
before  a  single  word  of  commendation  from  the  new 
arbitress  of  your  feeling.  You  have  seen  Miss  Dalton ! 
You  have  met  her  on  that  last  evening  of  your  cloistered 
life,  in  all  the  elegance  of  ball  costume ;  your  eye  has 
feasted  on  her  elegant  figure,  and  upon  her  eye 
sparkling  with  the  consciousness  of  beauty.  You  have 
talked  with  Miss  Dalton  about  Byron, — about  Words 
worth, — about  Homer.  You  have  quoted  poetry  to 
Miss  Dalton ;  you  have  clasped  Miss  Dalton's  hand ! 

Her  conversation  delights  you  by  its  piquancy  and 
grace ;  she  is  quite  ready  to  meet  you  (a  grave  matter 
of  surprise !)  upon  whatever  subject  you  may  suggest. 
You  lapse  easily  and  lovingly  into  the  current  of  her 
thought,  and  blush  to  find  yourself  vacantly  admiring, 
when  she  is  looking  for  reply.  The  regard  you  feel  for 
her,  resolves  itself  into  an  exquisite  mental  love,  vastly 
superior  as  you  think,  to  any  other  kind  of  love. 
There  is  no  dream  of  marriage  as  yet,  but  only  of 


148  DREAM-LIFE. 

sitting  beside  her  in  the  moonlight,  during  a  countless 
succession  of  hours,  and  talking  of  poetry  and  nature, — 
of  destiny,  and  love. 

Magnificent  Miss  Dalton  ! 

And  all  the  while,  vaunting  youth  is  almost 

mindless  of  the  presence  of  that  fond  Nelly,  whose 
warm  sisterly  affection  measures  itself  hopefully  against 
the  proud  associations  of  your  growing  years ;  and 
whose  deep,  loving  eye  half  suffused  with  its  native 
tenderness,  seems  longing  to  win  you  back  to  the  old 
joys  of  that  Home-love,  which  linger  on  the  distant 
horizon  of  your  boy-hood,  like  the  golden  glories  of  a 
sinking  day. 

As  the  night  wanes,  you  wander,  for  a  last  look, 
toward  the  dingy  walls,  that  have  made  for  you  so  long 
a  home.  The  old  broken  expectancies,  the  days  of 
glee,  the  triumphs,  the  rivalries,  the  defeats,  the  friend 
ships,  are  recalled  with  a  fluttering  of  the  heart,  that 
pride  cannot  wholly  subdue.  You  step  upon  the 
Chanel-porch,  in  the  quiet  of  the  night,  as  you  would 
step  on  the  graves  of  friends.  You  pace  back  and 
forth  in  the  wan  moonlight,  dreaming  of  that  dim  life 
which  opens  wide  and  long,  from  the  morrow.  The 
width  and  length  oppress  you  :  they  crush  down  your 
struggling  self-consciousness,  like  Titans  dealing  with 
Pigmies.  A  single  piercing  thought  of  the  vast  and 
shadowy  future  which  is  so  near,  tear?  off  on  the 


COLLEGE    ROMANCE.  149 

instant  all  the  gew-gaws  of  pride, — strips  away  the 
vanity  that  doubles  your  bigness,  and  forces  you  down 
to  the  bare  nakedness  of  what  you  truly  are  ! 

With  one  more  yearning  look  at  the  gray  hulks  of 
building,  you  loiter  away  under  the  trees.  The 
monster  elms  which  have  bowered  your  proud  steps 
through  four  years  of  proudest  life,  lift  up  to  the  night 
their  rounded  canopy  of  leases,  with  a  quiet  majesty 
that  mocks  you.  They  kiss  the  same  calm  sky,  which 
they  wooed  four  years  ago;  and  they  droop  their 
trailing  limbs  lovingly  to  the  same  earth,  which 
has  steadily,  and  quietly,  wrought  in  them  their  stature, 
and  their  strength.  Only  here  and  there,  you  catch 
the  loitering  foot-fall  of  some  other  benighted  dreamer, 
strolling  around  the  vast  quadrangle  of  level  green, 
which  lies  like  a  prairie-child,  under  the  edging  shadows 
of  the  town.  The  lights  glimmer  one  by  one  ;  and 
one  by  one — like  breaking  hopes — they  fade  away 
from  the  houses.  The  full  risen  moon  that  dapples  the 
ground  beneath  the  trees,  touches  the  tall  church 
spires  with  silver;  and  slants  their  loftiness — as 
memory  slants  grief — in  long,  dark,  tapering  lines,  upon 
the  silvered  Green. 


IV. 

FIRST   LOOK   AT   THE    WORLD. 

OUR  Clarence  is  now  fairly  afloat  upon  the  swift 
tide  of  Youth.  The  thrall  of  teachers  is  ended, 
and  the  audacity  of  self-resolve  is  begun.  It  is  not 
a  little  odd,  that  when  we  have  least  strength  to 
combat  the  world,  we  have  the  highest  confidence  in 
our  ability. 

Veiy  few  individuals  in  the  world,  possess  that 
happy  consciousness  of  their  own  prowess,  which 
belongs  to  the  newly  graduated  Collegian.  He  has 
most  abounding  faith  in  the  tricksy  panoply  that  he 
has  wrought  out  of  the  metal  of  his  Classics.  His 
mathematics,  he  has  not  a  doubt,  will  solve  for  him 
every  complexity  of  life's  questions ;  and  his  logic  will 
as  certainly  untie  all  gordian  knots,  whether  in  politics 
or  ethics. 


FIRST    LOOK    AT    THE    WORLD.      151 

He  has  no  idea  of  defeat ;  he  proposes  to  take  the 
world  by  storm ;  he  half  wonders  that  quiet  people 
are  not  startled  by  his  presence.  He  brushes  with  an 
air  of  importance  about  the  halls  of  country  hotels ; 
he  weai-s  his  honor  at  the  public  tables ;  he  fancies  that 
the  inattentive  guests  can  have  little  idea  that  the 
young  gentleman,  who  so  recently  delighted  the  public 
ear  with  his  dissertation  on  the  "  General  tendency  of 
Opinion,"  is  actually  among  them ;  and  quietly  eating 
from  the  same  dish  of  beef,  and  of  pudding ! 

Our  poor  Clarence  does  not  know — heaven  forbid  he 
should ! — that  he  is  but  little  wiser  now,  than  when  he 
turned  his  back  upon  the  old  Academy,  with  its  galli 
pots  and  broken  retorts;  and  that  with  the  addition 
of  a  few  Greek  roots,  a  smattering  of  Latin,  and  some 
readiness  of  speech,  he  is  almost  as  weak  for  breasting 
the  strong  current  of  life,  as  when  a  boy.  America 
is  but  a  poor  place  for  the  romantic  book  dreamer. 
The  demands  of  this  new,  Western  life  of  ours,  are 
practical,  and  earnest.  Prompt  action,  and  ready  tact, 
are  the  weapons  by  which  to  meet  it,  and  subdue  it. 
The  education  of  the  cloister  offers  at  best,  only  a  sound 
starting  point,  from  which  to  leap  into  the  tide. 

The  father  of  Clarence  is  a  cool,  matter-of-fact  man. 
He  has  little  sympathy  with  any  of  the  romantic  notions 
that  enthrall  a  youth  of  twenty.  He  has  a  very 
humble  opinion — much  humbler  than  you  think  he 


152  DREAM-LIFE. 

ought — of  your  attainments  at  College.  He  advises  a 
short  period  of  travel,  that  by  observation,  you  may 
find  out  more,  how  that  world  is  made  up,  with  which 
you  are  henceforth  to  struggle. 

Your  mother  half  fears  your  alienation  from  tho 
affections  of  home.  Her  letters  all  run  over  with  a 
tenderness  that  makes  you  sigh,  and  that  makes  you 
feel  a  deep  reproach..  You  may  not  have  been 
wanting  in  the  more  ordinary  tokens  of  affection ;  you 
have  made  your  periodic  visits ;  but  you  blush  for  the 
consciousness  that  fastens  on  you,  of  neglect  at  heart. 
You  blush  for  the  lack  of  that  glow  of  feeling,  which 
once  fastened  to  every  home-object. 

[Does  a  man  indeed  outgrow  affections  as  his  mind 
ripens  ?  Do  the  early  and  tender  sympathies  become 
a  part  of  his  intellectual  perceptions,  to  be  appreciated 
and  reasoned  upon,  as  one  reasons  about  truths  of 
science  ?  Is  their  vitality  necessarily  young  ?  Is  there 
the  same  ripe,  joyous  burst  of  the  heart,  at  the  recol 
lection  of  later  friendships,  which  belonged  to  those  of 
boyhood  ;  and  are  not  the  later  ones  more  the  suggest 
ions  of  judgment,  and  less,  the  absolute  conditions 
of  the  heart's  health  ?] 

The  letters  of  your  mother,  as  I  said,  make  you  sigh  : 
there  is  no  moment  in  our  lives  when  we  feel  less 
worthy  of  the  love  of  others,  and  less  worthy  of  our 
own  respect,  than  when  we  receive  evidences  of  kind- 


FIRST    LOOK    AT    THE    WORLD.     153 

ness,  which  we  know  we  do  not  merit ;  and  when  souls 
are  laid  bare  to  us,  and  we  have  too  much  indifference 
to  lay  bare  our  own  in  return. 

"  Clarence" — writes  that  neglected  mother — "  you  do 
not  know  how  much  you  are  in  our  thoughts,  and  how 
often  you  are  the  burden  of  my  prayers.  Oh,  Clarence, 
I  could  almost  wish  that  you  were  still  a  boy — still 
running  to  me  for  those  little  favors,  which  I  was  only 
too  happy  to  bestow, — still  dependent  in  some  degree 
on  your  mother's  love,  for  happiness. 

"  Perhaps  I  do  you  wrong,  Clarence,  but  it  does  seem 
from  the  changing  tone  of  your  letters  that  you  are 
becoming  more  and  more  forgetful  of  us  all ; — that  you 
are  feeling  less  need  of  our  advice,  and — what  I  feel 
far  more  deeply — less  need  of  our  affection.  Do  not, 
my  son,  forget  the  lessons  of  home.  There  will  come  a 
time,  I  feel  sure,  when  you  will  know  that  those 
lessons  are  good.  They  may  not  indeed  help  you  in 
that  intellectual  strife  which  soon  will  engross  you ;  and 
they  may  not  have  fitted  you  to  shine  in  what  are 
called  the  brilliant  circles  of  the  world ;  but  they  are 
such,  Clarence,  as  make  the  heart  pure,  and  honest,  and 
strong ! 

"  You  may  think  me  weak  to  write  you  thus,  as  I 
would  have  written  to  my  light-hearted  boy,  years  ago ; 
— indeed  I  am  not  strong,  but  growing  every  day 
more  feeble. 

7* 


154  DREAM -LIFE. 

"Nelly,  your  sweet  sister,  is  sitting  by  me:  'Tell 
Clarence,'  she  says,  *  to  come  home  soon.'  You  know, 
my  son,  what  hearty  welcome  will  greet  you ;  and  that 
whether  here,  or  away,  our  love  and  prayers  will  be 
with  you  always ;  and  may  God,  in  his  infinite  mercy 
keep  you  from  all  harm !" 

A  tear  or  two, — brushed  away,  as  soon  as  they 
come, — is  all  that  youth  gives,  to  embalm  such  trea 
sure  of  love !  A  gay  laugh,  or  the  challenge  of  some 
companion  of  a  day,  will  sweep  away  into  the  night, 
the  earnest,  regretful,  yet  happy  dreams,  that  rise  like 
incense  from  the  pages  of  such  hallowed  affection. 

The  brusque  world  too  is  to  be  met,  with  all 
its  hurry  and  promptitude.  Manhood,  in  our  swift 
American  world,  is  measured  too  much  by  forgetfulness 
of  all  the  sweet  liens  which  tie  the  heart  to  the  home 
of  its  first  attachments.  We  deaden  the  glow  that 
nature  has  kindled,  lest  it  may  lighten  our  hearts  into 
an  enchanting  flame  of  weakness.  We  have  not 
learned  to  make  that  flame  the  beacon  of  our  purposes, 
and  the  warmer  of  our  strength.  We  are  men  too 
early. 

But  an  experience  is  approaching  Clarence,  that 
will  drive  Hs  heart  home  for  shelter,  like  a  wounded 
bird! 

It  is  an  autumn  morning,  with  such  crimson 

glories  to  kindle  it,  as  lie  along  the  twin  ranges  of 


FIRST    LOOK    AT    THE    WORLD.      155 

mountain  that  guard  the  Hudson.  The  white  frosts  shine 
like  changing  silk,  in  the  fields  of  late  growing  clover ; 
the  river  mists  curl,  and  idle  along  the  bosom  of  the 
waier,  and  creep  up  the  hill  sides ;  and  at  noon,  float 
their  feathery  vapors  aloft,  in  clouds ;  the  crimson  trees 
blaze  in  the  side  valleys,  and  blend  their  verimllion 
tints  under  the  fairy  hands  of  our  American  frost- 
painters,  with  the  dark  blood  of  the  ash  trees,  and  the 
orange  tinted  oaks.  Blue  and  bright,  under  the  clear 
Fall  heaven,  the  broad  river  shines  before  the  surging 
prow  of  the  boat,  like  a  shield  of  steel. 

The  bracing  air  lights  up  rich  dreams  of  life.  Your 
fancy  peoples  the  valleys,  and  the  hill-tops  with  its 
creations ;  and  your  hope  lends  some  crowning  beauty 
of  the  landscape,  to  your  dreamy  future.  The  vision 
of  your  last  college  year  is  not  gone.  That  figure 
whose  elegance  your  eyes  then  feasted  on,  still  floats 
before  you;  and  the  memory  of  the  last  talk  with 
Laura,  is  as  vivid,  as  if  it  were  only  yesterday,  that  you 
listened.  Indeed,  this  opening  campaign  of  travel, — 
although  you  are  half  ashamed  to  confess  it  to  your 
self, — is  guided  by  the  thought  of  her. 

Dalton,  with  a  party  of  friends,  his  sister  among 
them,  are  journeying  to  the  north.  A  hope  of  meeting 
them — scarce  acknowledged  as  an  intention — spurs  you 
on.  The  eye  rests  dreamily,  and  vaguely  on  the 
beauties  that  appear  at  every  turn :  they  are  beauties 


156  DREAM-LIFE. 

that  charm  you,  and  charm  you  the  more  by  an 
indefinable  association  with  that  fairy  object  that  floats 
before  you,  half  unknown,  and  wholly  unclaimed. 
The  quiet  towns,  with  their  noon-day  stillness,  the 
out-lying  mansions  with  their  stately  splendor,  the 
bustling  cities  with  their  mocking  din,  and  the  long 
reaches  of  silent,  and  wooded  shore,  chime  with  their 
several  beauties  to  your  heart,  in  keeping  with  the 
master  key,  that  was  touched  long  weeks  before. 

The  cool,  honest  advices  of  the  father,  drift  across 
your  memory  in  shadowy  forms,  as  you  wander  through 
the  streets  of  the  first  northern  cities ;  and  all  the  need 
for  observation,  and  the  incentives  to  purpose,  which 
your  ambitious  designs  would  once  have  quickened, 
fade  dismally,  when  you  find  that  she  is  not  there.  All 
the  lax  gaiety  of  Saratoga  palls  on  the  appetite :  even 
the  magnificent  shores  of  Lake  George,  though  stirring 
your  spirit  to  an  insensible  wonder  and  love,  do  not 
cheat  you  into  a  trance  that  lingers.  In  vain,  the  sun 
blazons  every  isle,  and  lights  every  shaded  cove,  and  at 
evening,  stretches  the  Black  mountain  in  giant  slumber 
on  the  waters. 

Your  thought  bounds  away  from  the  beauty  of  sky 
and  lake,  and  fastens  upon  the  ideal  which  your  dreamy 
humors  cherish.  The  veiy  glow  of  pursuit  heightens 
your  fervor  : — a  fervor  that  dims  sadly  the  new-wakened 
memories  of  home.  The  southern  gates  of  Champlain, 


FIRST   LOOK    AT   THE   WORLD.      157 

those  fir-draped  Trosachs  of  America,  are  passed,  and 
you  find  yourself  upon  a  golden  evening  of  Canadian 
autumn,  in  the  quaint  old  city  of  Montreal. 

Dalton,  with  his  party,  has  gone  down  to  Quebec. 
He  is  to  return  within  a  few  days,  on  his  way  to 
Niagara.  There  is  a  letter  from  Nelly  waiting  you. 
It  says  : — *  Mother  is  much  more  feeble  :  she  often 
speaks  of  your  return,  in  a  way  that  I  am  sure,  if  you 
heard,  Clarence,  would  bring  you  back  to  us  soon.7 

Thei'e  is  a  struggle  in  your  mind :  old  affection  is 
weaker  than  young  pride  and  hope.  Moreover,  the 
world  is  to  be  faced  :  the  new  scenes  around  you  are  to 
be  studied.  An  answer  is  penned  full  of  kind  remem 
brances,  and  begging  a  few  days  of  delay.  You 
wander,  wondering,  under  the  quaint  old  houses,  and 
wishing  for  the  return  of  Dalton. 

He  meets  you  with  that  happy,  careless  way  of  his — 
the  dangerous  way  which  some  men  are  born  to, — and 
which  chimes  easily  to  every  tone  of  the  world  : — a  way 
you  wondered  at  once  ;  a  way,  you  admire  now,  and  a 
way,  that  you  will  distrust,  as  you  come  to  see  more  of 
men.  Miss  Dalton — (it  seems  sacrilege  to  call  her 
Laura) — is  the  same  elegant  being  that  entranced  you 
first. 

They  urge  you  to  join  their  party.  But  there  is  no 
need  of  urgence :  those  eyes,  that  figure,  the  whole 
presence  indeed  of  Miss  Dalton,  attract  you  with  a 


158  DREAM-LIFE. 

power  which  you  can  neither  explain,  nor  resist.  One 
look  of  grace  enslaves  you ;  and  there  is  a  strange 
pride  in  the  enslavement. 

Is  it   dream,  or  is  it   earnest, — those  moon-lit 

walks  upon  the  hills  that  skirt  the  city,  when  you  watch 
the  stare,  listening  to  her  voice,  and  feel  the  pressure  of 
that  jewelled  hand  upon  your  arm  ? — when  you  drain 
your  memory  of  its  whole  stock  of  poetic  beauties,  to 
lavish  upon  her  ear  ?  Is  it  love,  or  is  it  madness,  when 
you  catch  her  eye,  as  it  beams  more  of  eloquence  than 
lies  in  all  your  moonlight  poetry,  and  feel  an  exultant 
gush  of  the  heart,  that  makes  you  proud  as  a  man,  and 
yet  timid  as  a  boy,  beside  her  ? 

Has  Dalton  with  that  calm,  placid,  nonchalant  look 
of  his,  any  inkling  of  the  raptures,  which  his  elegant 
sister  is  exciting?  Has  the  stout,  elderly  gentleman 
who  is  so  prodigal  of  his  bouquets,  and  attentions,  any 
idea  of  the  formidable  rival  that  he  has  found  ?  Has 
Laura  herself — you  dream — any  conception  of  that 
intensity  of  admiration  with  which  you  worship  ? 

Poor  Clarence  !  it  is  his  first  look  at  Life  ! 

The  Thousand  Isles  with  their  leafy  beauties,  lie 
around  your  passing  boat,  like  the  joys  that  skirt  us 
and  pass  us,  on  our  way  through  life.  The  Thousand 
Isles  rise  sudden  before  you,  and  fringe  your  yeasty 
track,  and  drop  away  into  floating  spectres  of  beauty — 


FIRST    LOOK    AT    THE    WORLD.      159 

of  haze — of  distance,  like  those  dreams  of  joy,  that 
your  passion  lends  the  brain.  The  low  banks  of 
Ontario  look  sullen  by  night  ;  and  the  moon,  rising 
tranquilly  over  the  tops  of  vast  forests  that  stand  in 
majestic  ranks  over  ten  thousand  acres  of  shore-land, 
drips  its  silvery  sparkles  along  the  rocking  waters,  and 
flashes  across  your  foamy  wake. 

With  such  attendance,  that  subdues  for  the  time  the 
dreamy  forays  of  your  passion,  you  draw  toward  tlio 
sound  of  Niagara ;  and  its  distant,  vague  roar  coming 
through  great  aisles  of  gloomy  forest,  bears  up  your 
spirit,  like  a  child's,  into  the  Highest  Presence. 

The  morning  after,  you  are  standing  with  your  party 
upon  the  steps  of  the  Hotel.  A  letter  is  handed  to 
you.  Dal  ton  remarks  in  a  quizzical  way,  that  *  it  shows 
a  lady's  hand.' 

"  Aha,  a  lady  !"  says  Miss  Dalton  ; — and  so  gaily ! 

"  A  sister,"  I  say  ;  for  it  is  Nelly's  hand. 

"  By  the  by,  Clarence,"  says  Dalton,  "  it  was  a 
very  pretty  sister,  you  gave  us  a  glimpse  of  at 
commencement." 

"  Ah,  you  think  so,"  and  there  is  something  in  your 
tone,  that  shows  a  little  indignation  at  this  careless 
mention  of  your  fond  Nelly ; — and  from  those  lips ! 
It  will  occur  to  you  again. 

A  single  glance  at  the  letter  blanches  your  cheek. 
Y"our  heart  throbs  : — throbs  harder, — throbs  tumultu- 


160  DREAM  >LiFE. 

ously.  You  bite  your  lip  ;  for  there  are  lookers  on. 
But  it  will  not  do.  You  hurry  away :  you  find  your 
chamber :  you  close  and  lock  the  door,  and  burst  into 
a  flood  of  teare. 


V. 

A    BROKEN    HOME. 

IT  is  Nelly's  own  fair  hand,  yet  sadly  blotted;— 
blotted  with  her  tears,  and  blotted  with  yours. 

"  It  is  all  over,  dear,  dear  Clarence  !  oh,  how  I 

wish  you  were  here  to  mourn  with  us !  I  can  hardly 
now  believe  that  our  poor  mother  is  indeed  dead." 

Dead  ! — It  is  a  terrible  word.  You  repeat  i\ 

with  a  fresh  burst  of  grief.  The  letter  is  crumpled  in 
your  hand.  Unfold  it  again,  sobbing,  and  read  on. 

"  For  a  week,  she  had  been  failing  every  day ;  but 
on  Saturday,  we  thought  her  very  much  better.  I  told 
her,  I  felt  sure  she  would  live  to  see  you  again. 

'  I  shall  never  see  him  again,  Nelly,'  said  she, 
bursting  into  tears." 

Ah,  Clarence,  where  is  your  youthful  pride,  and 


162  DREAM-LIFE. 

your  strength  now  ? — with  only  that  frail  paper  to 
annoy  you,  crushed  in  your  grasp  ! 

"  She  sent  for  Father,  and  taking  his  hand  in  hers, 
told  him  she  was  dying.  I  am  glad  you  did  not  sec 
his  grief,  I  was  kneeling  beside  her,  and  she  put  her 
hand  upon  my  head,  and  let  it  rest  there  for  a  moment, 
while  her  lips  moved,  ss  if  she  were  praying. 

*  Kiss  me,  Nelly,'  said  she,  growing  fainter  :  *  kiss  me 
again  for  Clarence.* 

"  A  little  while  after  she  died." 

For  a  long  time  you  remain  with  only  that  letter, 
and  your  thought  for  company.  You  pace  up  and 
down  your  chamber  :  again  you  seat  yourself,  and  lean 
your  head  upon  the  table,  enfeebled  by  the  very  grief, 
that  you  cherish  still.  The  whole  day  passes  thus : 
you  excuse  yourself  from  all  companionship  :  you  have 
not  the  heart  to  tell  the  story  of  your  troubles  to 
Dalton, — least  of  all,  to  Miss  Dalton.  How  is  this  ? 
Is  sorrow  too  selfish,  or  too  holy  ? 

Toward  night-fall  there  is-  a  calmer,  and  stronger 
feeling.  The  voice  of  the  present  world  comes  to  your 
ear  again.  But  you  move  away  from  it  unobserved  to 
that  stronger  voice  of  God,  in  the  Cataract.  Great 
masses  of  angry  cloud  hang  over  the  West ;  but 
beneath  them  the  red  harvest  sun  shines  over  the  long 
reach  of  Canadian  shore,  and  bathes  the  whirling 
rapids  in  splendor.  You  stroll  alone  over  the  quaking 


A   B  R  o  K  E  x    HOME.  1 G3 

bridge,  and  under  the  giant  trees  of  the  Island,  to  the 
edge  of  the  British  Fall.  You  go  out  to  the  little 
shattered  tower,  and  gaze  down  with  sensations  that 
will  last  till  death,  upon  the  deep  emerald  of  those 
awful  masses  of  water. 

It  is  not  the  place  for  a  bad  man  to  ponder :  it 
is  not  the  atmosphere  for  foul  thoughts,  or  weak  ones. 
A  man  is  never  better  than  when  he  has  the  humblest 
sense  of  himself:  he  is  never  so  unlike  the  spirit  of 
Evil,  as  when  his  pride  is  utterly  vanished.  You 
linger,  looking  upon  the  stream  of  fading  sunlight  that 
plays  across  the  rapids,  and  down  into  the  shadow  of 
the  depths  below,  lit  up  with  their  clouds  of  spray  : — 
yet  farther  down,  your  sight  swims  upon  the  black 
eddying  masses,  with  white  ribands  streaming  across 
their  glassy  surface;  and  your  dizzy  eye  fastens  upon 
the  frail  cockle  shells, — their  stout  oarsmen  dwindled  to 
pigmies, — that  dance  like  atoms  upon  the  vast  chasm, — • 
or  like  your  own  weak  resolves  upon  the  whirl  of  Time. 

Your  thought,  growing  broad  in  the  view,  seems  to 
cover  the  whole  area  of  life ;  you  set  up  your  affections 
and  your  duties ;  you  build  hopes  with  fairy  scenery, 
and  away  they  all  go,  tossing  like  the  relentless  waters 
to  the  deep  gulf,  that  gapes  a  hideous  welcome !  You 
sigh  at  your  weakness  of  heart,  or  of  endeavor,  and 
your  sighs  float  out  into  the  breeze  that  rises  ever  from 
the  shock  of  the  waves,  and  \thirl,  empty-handed,  to 


164  DREAM -LIFE. 

Heaven.  You  avow  high  purposes,  and  clench  them 
with  round  utterance  ;  and  your  voice  like  a  sparrow's, 
is  caught  up  in  the  roar  of  the  fall,  and  thrown  at  you 
from  the  cliffs,  and  dies  away  in  the  solemn  thunders 
of  nature.  Great  thoughts  of  life  come  over  you — of 
its  work  and  destiny — of  its  affections  and  duties,  and 
roll  down  swift — like  the  river — into  the  deep  whirl 
of  doubt  and  danger.  Other  thoughts,  grander  and 
stronger,  like  the  continuing  rush  of  waters,  come  over 
you,  and  knit  your  purposes  together  with  their  weight, 
and  crush  you  to  exultant  tears,  and  then  leap, 
shattered  and  broken,  from  the  very  edge  of  your 
intent, — into  mists  of  fear. 

The  moon  comes  out,  and  gleaming  through  the 
clouds,  braids  its  light,  fantastic  bow  upon  the  waters. 
You  feel  calmer  as  the  night  deepens.  The  darkness 
softens  you ;  it  hangs — like  the  pall  that  shrouds  your 
mother's  corpse, — low  and  heavily  to  your  heart.  It 
helps  your  inward  grief,  with  some  outward  show.  It 
makes  the  earth  a  mourner;  it  makes  the  flashing 
water-drops  so  many  attendant  mourners.  It  makes 
the  Great  Fall  itself  a  mourner,  and  its  roar — a 
requiem. 

The  pleasure  of  travel  is  cut  short.  To  one  person 
of  the  little  company  of  fellow  voyagers,  you  bid  adieu 
with  regret ;  pride,  love,  and  hope  point  toward  her, 
while  all  the  gentler  affections  stray  back  t.o  the  broken 


ABROKEN    HOME.  165 

home.  Her  smile  of  parting  is  very  gracious,  but  it  is 
not  after  all,  such  smile  as  your  warm  heart  pines  for. 

Ten  days  after,  you  are  walking  toward  the  old 
homestead,  with  such  feelings  as  it  never  called  up 
before.  In  the  days  of  boyhood,  there  were  triumphant 
thoughts  of  the  gladness,  and  the  pride,  with  which, 
when  grown  to  the  stature  of  manhood,  you  would 
come  back  to  that  little  town  of  your  birth.  As  you 
have  bent  with  your  dreamy  resolutions  over  the  tasks 
of  the  cloister  life,  swift  thoughts  have  flocked  on  you 
of  the  proud  step,  and  prouder  heart,  with  which  you 
would  one  day  greet  the  old  acquaintances  of  boyhood ; 
and  you  have  regaled  yourself  on  the  jaunty  manner 
with  which  you  would  meet  old  Dr.  Bidlow ;  and  the 
patronizing  air,  with  which  you  would  address  the 
pretty,  blue-eyed  Madge. 

It  is  late  afternoon  when  you  come  in  sight  of  the 
tall  sycamores  that  shade  your  home ;  you  shudder 
now  lest  you  may  meet  any  whom  you  once  knew. 
The  first,  keen  grief  of  youth  seeks  little  of  the  sym 
pathy  of  companions :  it  lies — with  a  sensitive  man, — 
bounded  within  the  narrowest  circles  of  the  heart. 
They  only  who  hold  the  key  to  its  innermost  recesses 
can  speak  consolation.  Years  will  make  a  change ; — 
as  the  summer  grows  in  fierce  heats,  the  balminess  of 
the  violet  banks  of  Spring,  is  lost  in  the  odor?  of  a 


166  DREAM-LIFE. 

thousand  flowers  ; — the  heart,  as  it  gains  in  age,  loses 
freshness,  but  wins  breadth. 

Throw  a  pebble  into  the  brook  at  its  source,  and 

the  agitation  is  terrible,  and  the  ripples  chafe  madly 
their  narrowed  banks ; — throw  in  a  pebble,  when  the 
brook  has  become  a  river,  and  you  see  a  few  circles, 
widening,  and  widening,  and  widening,  until  they  are 
lost  in  the  gentle,  every-day  murmur  of  its  life ! 

You  draw  your  hat  over  your  eyes,  as  you  walk 
toward  the  familiar  door;  the  yard  is  silent;  the  night 
is  falling  gloomily ;  a  few  katydids  are  crying  in  the 
trees.  The  mother's  window,  where — at  such  a  season 
as  this,  it  was  her  custom  to  sit  watching  your  play,  is 
shut ;  and  the  blinds  are  closed  over  it.  The  honey 
suckle  which  grew  over  the  window,  and  which  she 
loved  so  much,  has  flung  out  its  branches  carelessly ; 
and  the  spiders  have  hung  their  foul  nets  upon  its 
tendrils. 

And  she,  who  made  that  home  so  dear  to  your 
boyhood, — so  real  to  your  after  years, — standing  amid 
all  the  flights  of  your  youthful  ambition,  and  your 
paltry  cares  (for  they  seem  paltry  now)  and  your 
doubts,  and  anxieties  and  weaknesses  of  heart,  like  the 
light  of  your  hope — burning  ever  there,  under  the 
shadow  of  the  sycamores, — a  holy  beacon,  by  whose 
guidance  you  always  came  to  a  sweet  haven,  and  to  a 
refuge  from  all  your  toils, — is  gone, gone  forever ! 


A    BROKE  \    HOME.  167 

The  father  is  there  indeed; — beloved,  respected, 
esteemed ;  but  the  boyish  heart,  whose  old  life  is  now 
reviving,  leans  more  readily,  and  more  kindly  into  that 
void,  where  once  beat  the  heart  of  a  mother. 

Nell}  is  there ; — cherished  now  with  all  the  added 
love  that  is  stricken  off  from  her  who  has  left  you 
forever.  Nelly  meets  you  at  the  door. 

"  Clarence !" 

"  Nelly !" 

There  are  no  other  words  ;  but  you  feel  her  tears,  as 
the  kiss  of  welcome  is  given.  With  your  hand  joined 
in  her's,  you  walk  down  the  hall,  into  the  old,  familiar 
room  ; — not  with  the  jaunty,  college  step, — not  with 
any  presumption  on  your  dawning  manhood, — oh,  no, — 
nothing  of  this ! 

Quietly,  meekly,  feeling  your  whole  heart  shattered, 
and  your  mind  feeble  as  a  boy's,  and  your  purposes 
nothing,  and  worse  than  nothing, — with  only  one 
proud  feeling,  you  fling  your  arm  around  the  form 
of  that  gentle  sister, — the  pride  of  a  protector ; — the 
feeling — "  /  will  care  for  you  now,  dear  Nelly !" — that 
is  all.  And  even  that,  proud  as  it  is,  brings  weakness. 

You  sit  down  together  upon  the  lounge;  Nelly 
buries  her  face  in  her  hands,  sobbing. 

"Dear  Nelly,"  and  your  arm  clasps  her  more  fondly. 

There  is  a  cricket  in  the  corner  of  the  room,  chirping 
very  loudly.  It  seems  as  if  nothing  else  were  living — 


168  DREAM -LiFE. 

only  Nelly,  Clarence,  and  the  noisy  cricket.  Y"our  eye 
falls  on  the  chair  where  she  used  to  sit ;  it  is  drawn  up 
with  the  same  care  as  ever,  be&ide  the  fire. 

"  I  am  so  glad  to  see  you,  Clarence,"  says  Nelly, 
recovering  herself;  and  there  is  a  sweet,  sad  smile  now. 
And  sitting  there  beside  you,  she  tells  you  of  it  all ; — 
of  the  day,  and  of  the  hour ; — and  how  she  looked, — 
and  of  her  last  prayer,  and  how  happy  she  was. 
"  And  did  she  leave  no  message  for  me,  Nelly  ?" 
"  Not  to  forget  us,  Clarence  ;  but  you  could  not !" 
"  Thank  you,  Nelly  ;  and  was  there  nothing  else  ?" 
"  Yes,  Clarence ; — to  meet  her,  one  day  ?" 
You  only  press  her  hand. 

Presently  your  father  comes  in  :  he  greets  you  with 
far  more  than  his  usual  cordiality.  He  keeps  your  hand 
a  long  time,  looking  quietly  in  your  face,  as  if  he  were 
reading  traces  of  some  resemblance,  that  had  never 
struck  him  before. 

The  father  is  one  of  those  calm,  impassive  men,  who 
shows  little  upon  the  surface,  and  whose  feelings  you 
have  always  thought,  cold.  But  now,  there  is  a 
tremulousness  in  his  tones  that  you  never  remember 
observing  before.  He  seems  conscious  of  it  himself,  and 
forbears  talking.  He  goes  to  his  old  seat,  and  after 
gazing  at  you  a  little  while  with  the  same  steadfastness 
as  at  first,  leans  forward,  and  buries  his  face  in  his 
hands. 


A    BROKEN    HOME.  169 

From  that  very  moment,  you  feel  a  sympathy,  and 
a  love  for  him,  that  you  have  never  known  till  then. 
And  in  after  years,  when  suffering  or  trial  come  over 
you,  and  when  your  thoughts  fly,  as  to  a  refuge,  to 
that  shattered  home,  you  will  recal  that  stooping  image 
of  the  father, — with  his  head  bowed,  and  from  time 
to  time  trembling  convulsively  with  grief, — and  feel  that 
there  remains  yet  by  the  household  fires,  a  heart  of 
kindred  love,  and  of  kindred  sorrow. 

Nelly  steals  away  from  you  gently,  and  stepping 
across  the  room,  lays  her  hand  upon  his  shoulder,  with 
a  touch,  that  says,  as  plainly  as  words  could  say  it ; — 
"  We  are  here,  Father !" 

And  he  rouses  himself, — passes  his  arm  around  her  ; 
— looks  in  her  face  fondly, — draws  her  to  him,  and 
prints  a  kiss  upon  her  forehead. 

"  Nelly,  we  must  love  each  other  now,  more  than 
ever." 

Nelly's  lips  tremble,  but  she  cannot  answer ;  a  tear 
or  two  go  stealing  down  her  cheek. 

You  approach  them ;  and  your  father  takes  your 
hand  again,  with  a  firm  grasp, — looks  at  you  thought 
fully, — drops  his  eyes  upon  the  fire,  and  for  a  moment 
there  is  a  pause ; — "  We  are  quite  alone,  now,  my 
boy!" 

is  a  Broken  Home!    " 


172  DREAM-LIFE  . 

and  indifferent  way  that  utterly  surprises  you.  Can  it 
be,  you  think,  that  there  has  been  some  cause  of 
unkindness  ? 

Clarence  is  still  very  young ! 

The  fire  glows  warmly  upon  the  accustomed  hearth 
stone  ;  and — save  that  vacant  place,  never  to  be  filled 
again — a  home  cheer  reigns  even  in  this  time  of  your 
mourning.  The  spirit  of  the  lost  parent  seems  to  linger 
over  the  remnant  of  the  household ;  and  the  Bible 
upon  its  stand — the  book  she  loved  so  well — the  book 
so  sadly  forgotten, — seems  still  to  open  on  you  its 
promises,  in  her  sweet  tones ;  and  to  call  you,  as  it 
wore,  with  her  angel  voice,  to  the  land  that  she 
inherits. 

And  when  late  night  has  come,  and  the  household 
is  quiet,  you  call  up  in  the  darkness  of  your  chamber, 
that  other  night  of  grief,  which  followed  upon  the 
death  of  Charlie.  That  was  the  boy's  vision  of  death  ; 
and  this  is  the  youthful  vision.  Yet  essentially,  there  is 
but  little  difference.  Death  levels  the  capacities  of  the 
living,  as  it  levels  the  strength  of  its  victims.  It  is  as 
grand  to  the  man,  as  to  the  boy :  jts  teachings  are  as 
deep  for  age,  as  for  infancy. 

You  may  learn  its  manner,  and  estimate  its 
approaches ;  but  when  it  comes,  it  comes  always  with 
the  same  awful  front  that  it  wore  to  your  boyhood. 
Reason  and  Revelation  may  point  to  rich  issues  that 


FAMILY    CONFIDENCE.          173 

unfold  from  its  very  darkness  ;  yet  all  these  are  no 
more  to  your  bodily  sense,  and  no  more  to  your 
enlightened  hope,  than  those  foreshadowings  of  peace, 
which  rest  like  a  halo,  on  the  spirit  of  the  child,  as  he 
prays  in  guileless  tones, — OUR  FATHEK,  WHO  ART  IN 
HEAVEN  ! 

It  is  a  holy,  and  a  placid  grief  that  comes  over  you ; 
— not  crushing,  but  bringing  to  life  from  the  grave 
of  boyhood,  all  its  better  and  nobler  instincts.  In  their 
light,  your  wild  plans  of  youth  look  sadly  misshapen ; 
and  in  the  impulse  of  the  hour  you  abandon  them ; 
holy  resolutions  beam  again  upon  your  soul  like 
sunlight;  your  purposes  seem  bathed  in  goodness. 
There  is  an  effervescence  of  the  spirit,  that  carries  away 
all  foul  matter,  and  leaves  you  in  a  state  of  calm,  that 
seems  kindred  to  the  land  and  to  the  life,  whither  the 
sainted  mother  has  gone. 

This  calm  brings  a  smile  in  the  middle  of  tears, 
and  an  inward  looking,  and  leaning  toward  that 
Eternal  Power  which  governs  and  guides  us ; — with 
that  smile  and  that  leaning,  sleep  comes  like  an 
angelic  minister,  and  fondles  your  wearied  frame,  and 
thought,  into  that  repose  which  is  the  mirror  of  the 
Destroyer. 

— — Poor  Clarence,  he  is  like  the  rest  of  the  world, 
— whose  goodness  lies  chiefly  in  the  occasional  throbs 


172  DREAM-LIFE. 

and  indifferent  way  that  utterly  surprises  you.  Can  it 
be,  you  thhik,  that  there  has  been  some  cause  of 
unkindness  ? 

Clarence  is  still  very  young ! 

The  fire  glows  warmly  upon  the  accustomed  hearth 
stone  ;  and — sare  that  vacant  place,  never  to  be  filled 
again — a  home  cheer  reigns  even  in  this  time  of  your 
mourning.  The  spirit  of  the  lost  parent  teems  to  linger 
over  the  remnant  of  the  household;  and  the  Bible 
upon  its  stand — the  book  she  loved  so  well — the  book 
so  sadly  forgotten, — seems  still  to  open  on  you  its 
promises,  in  her  sweet  tones ;  and  to  call  you,  as  it 
were,  with  her  angel  voice,  to  the  land  that  she 
inherits. 

And  when  late  night  has  come,  and  the  household 
is  quiet,  yon  call  up  in  the  darkness  of  your  chamber, 
that  other  night  of  grie£  which  followed  upon  the 
death  of  Charlie,  That  was  the  boy's  vision  of  death ; 
and  this  is  the  youthful  vision.  Yet  essentially,  there  is 
but  little  difference.  Death  levels  the  capacities  of  the 
living,  as  it  levels  the  strength  of  ite  victims.  It  is  as 
grand  to  the  man,  as  to  the  boy :  jts  teachings  are  as 
deep  for  age,  m  tor  infancy. 

You  may  learn  its  manner,  and  estimate  its 
approaches;  bat  when  it  come*,  it  comes  always  with 
the  same  awful  front  that  it  wore  to  your  boyhood. 
Reason  and  Revelation  may  point  to  rich  issue*  that 


FAMILY   CONFIDENCE,         173 

unfold  from  its  very  darkness;  yet  all  these  are  no 
more  to  your  bodily  sense,  and  no  more  to  your 
enlightened  hope,  than  those  foreshadowings  of  peakv, 
which  rest  like  a  halo,  on  Aft  spirit  of  the  child,  as  he 
prays  in  guileless  tones, — OUR  FATHER,  WHO  AST  is 
HEAVEX! 

It  is  a  holy,  and  a  placid  grief  AMI  comes  over  you ; 
— not  crushing,  but  bringing  to  fife  from  the  grave 
of  boyhood,  all  its  better  and  aofer  instincts.  In  their 
Jjjghft,  your  wild  plans  of  youth  look  sadly  misshapen ; 
and  in  the  impulse  of  the  hour  you  abandon  them ; 
holy  resolutions  beam  again  upon  your  soul  fike 
sunlight;  your  purposes  seem  bathed  in  goodness. 
There  is  an  effervescence  of  the  spirit,  that  carries  away 
all  foul  matter,  and  leaves  you  in  a  state  of  calm,  that 
Reeins  kindi^  to  the  land  and  to  the  life,  whither  the 
sainted  mother  has  gone. 

This  calm  brings  a  smile  in  the  middle  of  tears, 
and  an  inward  looking,  and  leaning  toward  that 
Eternal  Power  which  goferaa  tad  ftfiluu  us ; — with 
that  smile,  and  that  leaning,  sleep  comes  fike  an 
angelic  minister,  and  fondks  your  wearied  frame,  and 
thought,  into  that  repose  which  is  the  mirror  of  the 
Destroyer, 

Poor  Clarence,  he  is  fike  the  rest  of  the  world, 

—whose  goodness  ties  chiefly  in  the  omaionul  throbs 


174  DREAM-LIFE. 

of  a  better  nature,  which  soon  subside,  and  leave  them 
upon  the  old  level  of  desire. 

As  you  lie  between  waking  and  sleeping,  you  have  a 
fancy  of  a  sound  at  your  door; — it  seems  to  open 
softly  ;  and  the  tall  figure  of  your  father  wrapped  in  his 
dressing-gown  stands  over  you,  and  gazes — as  he  gazed 
at  you  before; — his  look  is  very  mournful;  and  he 
murmurs  your  mother's  name ;  and — sighs ;  and — looks 
again ;  and  passes  out. 

At  morning,  you  cannot  tell  if  it  was  real,  or  a 
dream.  Those  higher  resolves  too,  which  grief,  and 
the  night  made,  seem  very  vague  and  shadowy.  Life 
with  its  ambitious,  and  cankerous  desires  wakes  again. 
You  do  not  feel  them  at  first ;  the  subjugation  of  holy 
thoughts,  and  of  reaches  toward  the  Infinite,  leave 
their  traces  on  you,  and  perhaps  bewilder  you  into 
a  half  consciousness  of  strength.  But  at  the  first  touch 
of  the  grosser  elements  about  you  ; — on  your  very  first 
entrance  upon  those  duties  which  quicken  pride  or 
shame,  and  which  are  pointing  at  you  from  every 
quarter, — your  holy  calm,  your  high-born  purpose, — 
your  spiritual  cleavings  pass  away,  like  the  electricity  of 
August  storms,  drawn  down  by  the  thousand  glittering 
turrets  of  a  city. 

The  world  is  stronger  than  the  night;  and  the 
bindings  of  sense  are  ten-fold  stronger  than  the  most 
exquisite  delirium  of  soul.  This  makes  you  feel,  or  will 


FAMILY    CONFIDENCE.  175 

one  day  make  you  feel,  that  life, — strong  life  and  sound 
life, — that  life  which  lends  approaches  to  the  Infinite, 
and  takes  hold  on  Heaven,  is  not  so  much  a  PROGRESS, 
as  it  is  a  RESISTANCE. 

There  is  one  special  confidence,  which  in  all  your 
talk  about  plans,  and  purposes,  you  do  not  give  to 
your  father;  you  reserve  that  for  the  ear  of  Nelly 
alone.  Why  happens  it,  that  a  father  is  almost  the 
last  confidant  that  a  son  makes  in  any  matter  deeply 
affecting  the  feelings  ?  Is  it  the  fear  that  a  father  may 
regard  such  matter  as  boyish  ?  Is  it  a  lingering 
suspicion  of  your  own  childishness ;  or  of  that  extreme 
of  affection  which  reduces  you  to  childishness  ? 

Why  is  it  always,  that  a  man  of  whatever  age  or 
condition,  forbears  to  exhibit  to  those,  whose  respect  for 
his  judgment,  and  mental  abilities  he  seeks  only,  the 
most  earnest  qualities  of  the  heart,  and  those  intenser 
susceptibilities  of  love,  which  underlie  his  nature,  and 
which  give  a  color,  in  spite  of  him,  to  the  habit  of  his 
life  ?  Why  is  he  so  morbidly  anxious  to  keep  out  of 
sight  any  extravagances  of  affection,  when  he  blurts 
officiously  to  the  world,  his  extravagances  of  action,  and 
of  thought  ?  Can  any  lover  explain  me  this  ? 
tz^  Again,  why  is  a  sister,  the  one  of  all  others,  to  whom 
you  first  whisper  the  dawnings  of  any  strong  emotion  ; 
— as  if  it  were  a  weakness,  that  her  charity  alone  could 
cover  ?  ^s 


176  D  RE  AM-LlFE  . 

However  this  may  be,  you  have  a  long  story  for 
Nelly's  ear.  It  is  some  days  after  your  return  :  you 
are  strolling  down  a  quiet,  wooded  lane — a  remembered 
place, — when  you  first  open  to  her  your  heart.  Your 
talk  is  of  Laura  Dalton.  You  describe  her  to  Nelly, 
with  the  extravagance  of  a  glowing  hope.  You 
picture  those  qualities  that  have  attracted  you  most  5 
you  dwell  upon  her  beauty,  her  elegant  figure,  her 
grace  of  conversation,  her  accomplishments.  You  make 
a  study  that  feeds  your  passion,  as  you  go  on.  You 
rise  by  the  very  glow  of  your  speech  into  a  frenzy 
of  feeling,  that  she  has  never  excited  before.  You  are 
quite  sure  that  you  would  be  wretched,  and  miserable, 
without  her. 

"  Do  you  mean  to  marry  her  ?"  says  Nelly. 

It  is  a  question  that  gives  a  swift  bound  to  the  blood 
of  youth.  It  involves  the  idea  of  possession  ;  and  of 
the  dependance  of  the  cherished  one  upon  your  own 
arm,  and  strength.  But  the  admiration  you  entertain, 
seems  almost  too  lofty  for  this  ;  Nelly's  question  makes 
you  diffident  of  reply ;  and  you  lose  yourself  in  a  new 
story  of  those  excellencies  of  speech,  and  of  figure, 
which  have  so  charmed  you. 

Nelly's  eye,  on  a  sudden,  becomes  full  of  tears. 

"What  is  it,  Nelly?" 

"  Our  mother  ;  Clarence." 

The  word,  and  the  thought  dampen  your  ardor; 


FAMILY    CONFIDENCE.  177 

the  sweet  watchfulness,  and  gentle  kindness  of  that 
parent,  for  an  instant,  make  a  sad  contrast  with  the 
showy  qualities  you  have  been  naming ;  and  the  spirit 
of  that  mother — called  up  by  Nelly's  words — seems  to 
hang  over  you,  with  an  anxious  love,  that  subdues  all 
your  pride  of  passion. 

But  this  passes ;  and  now, — half  believing  that 
Nelly's  thoughts  have  run  over  the  same  ground  with 
yours, — you  turn  special  pleader  for  your  fancy.  You 
argue  for  the  beauty,  which  you  just  now  affirmed ;  you 
do  your  utmost  to  win  over  Nelly  to  some  burst  of 
admiration.  Yet  there  she  sits  beside  you,  thought 
fully,  and  half  sadly,  playing  with  the  frail  autumn 
flowers  that  grow  at  her  side.  What  can  she  be 
thinking  ?  You  ask  it  by  a  look. 

She  smiles, — takes  your  hand,  for  she  will  not  let 
you  grow  angry, — 

"I    was    thinking,    Clarence,   whether   this    Laura 
Dalton,  would  after  all,  make  a  good  wife, — such  an 
one  as  you  would  love  always  ?" 
8* 


VII. 

A    GOOD    WIFE. 

THE  thought  of  Nelly  suggests  new  dreams,  that 
are  little  apt  to  find  place  in  the  rhapsodies  of  a 
youthful  lover.  The  very  epithet  of  a  good  wife, 
mates  tamely  with  the  romantic  fancies  of  a  first 
passion.  It  is  measuring  the  ideal  by  too  practical  a 
standard.  It  sweeps  away  all  the  delightful  vagueness 
of  a  faiiy  dream  of  love,  and  reduces  one  to  a  dull,  and 
economic  estimate  of  actual  qualities.  Passion  lives 
above  all  analysis  and  estimate,  and  arrives  at  its 
conclusions  by  intuition. 

Did  Petrarch  ever  think  if  Laura  would  make 
a  good  wife  ;  did  Oswald  ever  think  it  of  Corinne  ? 
Nay,  did  even  the  more  practical  Waverley,  ever  think 
it  of  the  impassioned  Flora?  Would  it  not  weaken 


AGooDWiFE.  179 

faith  in  their  romantic  passages,  if  you  believed  it? 
What  have  such  vulgar,  practical  issues  to  do  with  that 
passion  which  sublimates  the  faculties,  and  makes  the 
loving  dreamer  to  live  in  an  ideal  sphere,  where  nothing 
but  goodness  and  brightness  can  come  ? 

Nelly  is  to  be  pitied  for  entertaining  such  a  thought; 
and  yet  Nelly  is  very  good,  and  kind.  Her  affections 
are,  without  doubt,  all  centred  in  the  remnant  of  the 
shattered  home  :  she  has  never  known  any  further,  and 
deeper  love, — never  once  fancied  it  even 

Ah,  Clarence,  you  are  veiy  young ! 

And  yet  there  are  some  things  that  puzzle  you  in 
Nelly.  You  have  found,  accidentally,  in  one  of  her 
treasured  books, — a  book  that  lies  almost  always  on  her 
dressing  table, — a  little  withered  flower,  with  its  stem  in 
a  slip  of  paper  ;  and  on  the  paper  the  initials  of — your 
old  friend  Frank.  You  recall,  in  connection  with  this, 
her  indisposition  to  talk  of  him  on  the  first  evening  of 
your  return.  It  seems, — you  scarce  know  why — that 
these  are  the  tokens  of  something  very  like  a  leaning  of 
the  heart.  It  does  occur  to  you,  that  she  too,  may 
have  her  little  casket  of  loves ;  and  you  try  one  day, 
very  adroitly,  to  take  a  look  into  this  casket. 

You  will  learn,  later  in  life,  that  the  heart  of  a 

modest,  gentle  girl,  is  a  very  hard  matter,  for  even  a 
brother  to  probe  :  it  is  at  once  the  most  tender,  and  the 
most  unapproachable  of  all  fastnesses.  It  admits 


180  DREAM-LIFE. 

feeling,  by  armies,  with  great  trains  of  artillery, — but 
not  a  single  scout.  It  is  as  calm  and  pure  as  polar 
snows ;  but  deep  underneath,  wheie  no  footsteps  have 
gone,  and  where  no  eye  can  reach,  but  one,  lies  the 
warm,  and  the  throbbing  earth. 

Make  what  you  will  of  the  slight,  quivering  blushes, 
and  of  the  half-broken  expressions, — more  you  cannot 
get.  The  love  that  a  delicate-minded  girl  will  tell,  is  a 
short-sighted,  and  outside  love ;  but  the  love  that  she 
cherishes  without  voice  or  token,  is  a  love  that  will 
mould  her  secret  sympathies,  and  her  deepest,  fondest 
yearnings,  either  to  a  quiet  world  of  joy,  or  to  a  world 
of  placid  sufferance.  The  true  voice  of  her  love  she 
will  keep  back  long  and  late,  fearful  ever  of  her  most 
prized  jewel, — fearful  to  strange  sensitiveness  :  she  will 
show  kindness,  but  the  opening  of  the  real  flood-gates 
of  the  heart,  and  the  utterance  of  those  impassioned 
yearnings,  which  belong  to  its  nature,  come  far  later. 
And  fearful,  thrice  fearful  is  the  shock,  if  these  flow 
out  unmet ! 

That  deep,  thrilling  voice  bearing  all  the  perfume  of 
the  womanly  soul  in  its  flow,  rarely  finds  utterance  ;  and 
if  uttered  vainly, — if  called  out  by  tempting  devices, 
and  by  a  trust  that  is  abused, — desolate  indeed  is  the 
maiden  heart, — widowed  of  its  chastest  thought.  The 
soul  shrinks  affrighted  within  itself.  Like  a  tired  bird, 
lost  at  sea, — fluttering  around  what  seem  friendly 


A    GOOD    WIFE.  181 

boughs,  it  stoops  at  length,  and  finding  only  cold, 
slippery  spars,  with  no  bloom  and  no  foliage — its  last 
hope  gone — it  sinks  to  a  wild,  ocean  grave ! 

Nelly — and  the  thought  brings  a  tear  of  sympathy 
to  your  eye — must  have  such  a  heart :  it  speaks  in 
every  shadow  of  her  action.  And  this  very  delicacy 
seems  to  lend  her  a  charm,  that  would  make  her  a  wife, 
to  be  loved  and  honored. 

Aye,  there  is  something  in  that  maidenly  modesty, 
retiring  from  you,  as  you  advance, — retreating  timidly 
from  all  bold  approaches,  fearful  and  yet  joyous,  which 
wins  upon  the  iron  hardness  of  a  man's  nature,  like  a 
rising  flame.  To  force  of  action  and  resolve,  he  opposes 
force :  to  strong  will,  he  mates  his  own :  pride  lights 
pride ;  but  to  the  gentleness  of  the  true  womanly 
character,  he  yields  with  a  gush  of  tenderness  that 
nothing  else  can  call  out.  He  will  never  be  subjugated 
on  his  own  ground  of  action  and  energy ;  but  let  him 
be  lured  to  that  border  country,  over  which  the  delicacy, 
and  fondness  of  a  womanly  nature  presides,  and  his 
energy  yields,  his  haughty  determination  faints, — he  is 
proud  of  submission. 

And  with  this  thought  of  modesty,  and  gentleness  to 
illuminate  your  dream  of  an  ideal  wife,  you  chase  the 
pleasant  phantom  to  that  shadowy  home, — lying  far  off 
in  the  future, — of  which  she  is  the  glory,  and  the 
crown.  I  know  it  is  the  fashion  now-a-days  with  many, 


182  DREAM  - 


to  look  for  a  woman's  excellencies,  and  influence,  —  away 
from  her  home  ;  but  I  know  too,  that  a  vast  many 
eager,  and  hopeful  hearts,  still  cherish  the  belief  that 
her  virtues  will  range  highest,  and  live  longest  within 
those  sacred  walls. 

Where  indeed,  can  the  modest  and  earnest  virtue  of 
a  woman,  tell  a  stronger  story  of  its  worth,  than  upon 
the  dawning  habit  of  a  child  ?  Where  can  her  grace 
of  character  win  a  higher,  and  a  riper  effect,  than  upon 
the  action  of  her  household  ?  What  mean  those  noisy 
declaimers  who  talk  of  the  feeble  influence,  and  of  the 
crushed  faculties  of  a  woman  ? 

What  school  of  learning,  or  of  moral  endeavor, 
depends  more  on  its  teacher,  than  the  home  upon  the 
mother  ?  What  influence  of  all  the  world's  professors, 
and  teachers,  tells  so  strongly  on  the  habit  of  a  man's 
mind,  as  those  gentle  droppings  from  a  mother's  lips, 
which,  day  by  day,  and  hour  by  hour,  grow  into  the 
enlarging  stature  of  his  soul,  and  live  with  it  forever  ? 
They  can  hardly  be  mothers,  who  aim  at  a  broader,  and 
noisier  field  :  they  have  forgotten  to  be  daughters  :  they 
must  needs  have  lost  the  hope  of  being  wives. 

Be  this  how  it  may,  the  heart  of  a  man,  with  whom 
affection  is  n:>t  a  name,  and  love  a  mere  passion  of  the 
hour,  yearns  toward  the  quiet  of  a  home,  as  toward 
the  goal  of  his  earthly  joy,  and  hope.  And  as  you 
fasten  there,  your  thought,  an  indulgent,  yet  dreamy 


A    GOOD    WIFE.  183 

fancy  paints  the  loved  image  that  is  to  adorn  it,  and  to 
make  it  sacred. 

She  is  there  to  bid  you — God  speed  ! — and  an 

adieu,  that  hangs  like  music  on  your  ear,  as  you  go  out 
to  the  every  day  labor  of  life.  At  evening,  she  is  there 
to  greet  you,  as  you  come  back  wearied  with  a  day's 
toil ;  and  her  look  so  full  of  gladness,  cheats  you  of 
your  fatigue ;  and  she  steals  her  arm  around  you,  with 
a  soul  of  welcome,  that  beams  like  sunshine  on  her  brow 
and  that  fills  your  eye  with  tears  of  a  twin  gratitude — - 
to  her,  and  Heaven. 

She  is  not  unmindful  of  those  old-fashioned  virtues 
(  of  cleanliness,  and  of  order,  which  give  an  air  of  quiet, 
and  which  secure  content.  Your  wants  are  all  antici 
pated  ;  the  fire  is  burning  brightly ;  the  clean  hearth 
flashes  under  the  joyous  blaze ;  the  old  elbow  chair  is 
in  its  place.  Your  very  unworthiness  of  all  this  haunts 
you  like  an  accusing  spirit,  and  yet  penetrates  your 
heart  with  a  new  devotion,  toward  the  loved  one  who  is 
thus  watchful  of  your  comfort. 

7  She  is  gentle ; — keeping  your  love,  as  she  has  won  it, 
by  a  thousand  nameless  and  modest  virtues,  which 
radiate  from  her  whole  life  and  action.  She  steals  upon 
your  affections  like  a  summer  wind  breathing  softly 
over  sleeping  valleys.  She  gains  a  masteiy  over  your 
sterner  nature,  by  veiy  contrast ;  and  wins  you  unwit 
tingly  to  her  lightest  wish.  And  yet  her  wishes  arc 


184  DREAM-LIFE. 

guided  by  that  delicate  tact,  which  avoids  conflict  with 
your  manly  pride ;  she  subdues,  by  seeming  to  yield. 
By  a  single  soft  word  of  appeal,  she  robs  your  vexation 
of  its  anger ;  and  with  a  slight  touch  of  that  fair  hand, 
and  one  pleading  look  of  that  earnest  eye,  she  disarms 
your  sternest  pride. 

She  is  kind ; — shedding  her  kindness,  as  Heaven  sheds 
dew.  Who  indeed  could  doubt  it  ? — least  of  all,  you, 
who  are  living  on  her  kindness,  day  by  day,  as  Jlowjrs 
live  on  ligliU./^fnere  is  none  of  that  officious  paradey 


ir~*^ 

which  blunts  the  point  of  benevolence^Pbut Hflempers 
every  action  with  a  blessing.  If  trouble  has  come  upon 
you,  she  knows  that  her  voice  beguiling  you  into 
cheerfulness,  will  lay  your  fears  ;  and  as  she  draws  her 
chair  beside  you,  she  knows  that  the  tender  and 
confiding  way,  with  which  she  takes  your  hand,  and 
looks  up  into  your  earnest  face,  will  drive  away  from 
your  annoyance  all  its  weight.  As  she  lingers,  leading 
off  your  thought  with  pleasant  words,  she  knows  well 
that  she  is  redeeming  you  from  care,  and  soothing  you 
to  that  sweet  calm,  which  such  home,  and  such  wife 
can  alone  bestow.  And  in  sickness, — sickness  that  you 
almost  covet  for  the  sympathy  it  brings, — that  hand  of 
hers  resting  on  your  fevered  forehead,  or  those  fingers 
playing  with  the  scattered  locks,  are  more  full  of  kind 
ness  than  the  loudest  vaunt  of  friends;  and  when 
your  failing  strength  will  permit  no  more,  you  grasp 


AGooDWiFE.  185 

that  cherished  hand, — with  a  fullness  of  joy,  of 
thankfulness,  and  of  love,  which  your  tears  only  can 
tell. 

She  is  good  ; — her  hopes  live,  where  the  angels  live. 
Her  kindness  and  gentleness  are  sweetly  tempered  with 
that  meekness  and  forbearance  which  are  bom  of 
Faith.  Trust  comes  into  her  heart,  as  rivers  come  to 
the  sea.  And  in  the  dark  hours  of  doubt  and  fore 
boding,  you  rest  fondly  upon  her  buoyant  Faith,  as  the 
treasure  of  your  common  life;  and  in  your  holier 
musings,  you  look  to  that  frail  hand,  and  that  gentle 
spirit,  to  lead  you  away  from  the  vanities  of  worldly 
ambition,  to  the  fullness  of  that  joy,  which  the  good 
inherit. 

Is  Laura  Dalton,  such  an  one? 


VIII. 

A    BROKEN    HOPE. 

YOUTHFUL  passion  is  a  giant.  It  overleaps 
all  the  dreams,  and  all  the  resolves  of  our 
better  and  quieter  nature  ;  and  drives  madly  toward 
some  wild  issue,  that  lives  only  in  its  frenzy.  How 
little  account  does  passion  take  of  goodness  !  It  is  not 
within  the  cycle  of  its  revolution :  it  is  below :  it  is 
tamer  :  it  is  older  :  it  wears  no  wings. 

And  your  proud  heart  flashing  back  to  the  memory 
of  that  sparkling  eye,  which  lighted  your  hope — full-fed 
upon  the  vanities  of  cloister  learning,  drives  your  soberer 
visions  to  the  wind.  As  you  recal  those  tones,  so  full 
of  brilliancy  and  pride,  the  quiet  virtues  fade,  like  the 
soft  haze  upon  a  spring  landscape,  driven  westward  by 
a  swift,  sea-born  storm.  The  pulse  bounds :  the  eyes 


A    BROKEN    HOPE.  187 

flash :  the  heart  trembles  with  its  sharp  springs.  Hope 
dilates,  like  the  eye, — fed  with  swift  blood,  leaping  to 
the  brain. 

Again  the  image  of  Miss  Dalton,  so  fine,  so  noble,  so 
womanly,  fills,  and  bounds  the  Future.  The  lingering 
tears  of  grief  drop  away  from  your  eye,  as  the  lingering 
loves  of  boyhood  drop  from  your  scalding  passion,  or 
drift  into  clouds  of  vapor. 

You  listen  to  the  calm,  thoughtful  advice  of  the 
father,  with  a  deep  consciousness  of  something  stronger 
than  his  counsels,  seething  in  your  bosom.  The  words 
of  caution,  of  instruction,  of  guidance,  fall  upon  your 
heated  imagination,  like  the  night-dews  upon  the  crater 
of  an  Etna.  They  are  beneficent,  and  healthful  for  the 
straggling  herbage  upon  the  surface  of  the  mountain ; 
but  they  do  not  reach,  or  temper  the  inner  fires,  that 
are  rolling  their  billows  of  flame,  beneath. 

You  drop  hints  from  time  to  time  to  those  with 
whom  you  are  most  familiar,  of  some  prospective 
change  of  condition.  There  is  a  new  and  cheerful 
interest  in  the  building  plans  of  your  neighbors : — a 
new,  and  cheerful  study  of  the  principles  of  domestic 
architecture  ; — in  which,  very  elegant  boudoirs,  adorned 
with  harps,  hold  prominent  place ;  and  libraries  with 
gilt-bound  books,  veiy  rich  in  lyrical,  and  dramatic 
poetry  ; — fine  views  from  bay  windows  ; — graceful  pots 
of  flowers  ; — sleek  looking  Italian  grey-hounds  ; — 


188  DREAM-LIFE. 

cheerful  sunlight ; — musical  goldfinches  chattering  on 
the  wall ; — superb  pictures  of  Princesses  in  peasant 
dresses  ; — soft  Axminster  carpets  ; — easy-acting  bell- 
pulls  ; — gigantic  candelabras  ; — porcelain  vases  of  classic 
shape  ; — neat  waiters  in  white  aprons  ; — luxurious 
lounges ;  and,  to  crown  them  all  with  the  very  height 
of  your  pride, — the  elegant  Laura,  the  mistress,  and  the 
guardian  of  your  soul — moving  amid  the  scene,  like  a 
new  Duchess  of  Valliere  ! 

You  catch  chance  sights  here  and  there,  of  the 
blue-eyed  Madge  :  you  see  her,  in  her  mother's  house 
hold,  the  earnest,  and  devoted  daughter, — gliding 
gracefully  about  her  mother's  cottage,  the  very  type  of 
gentleness,  and  of  duty.  Yet  withal,  there  are  sparks 
of  spirit  in  her,  that  pique  your  pride, — lofty  as  it  is. 
You  offer  flowers,  which  she  accepts  with  a  kind 
smile  ; — not  of  coquetry — but  of  simplest  thankfulness. 
She  is  not  the  girl  to  gratify  your  vanity  with  any 
half-show  of  tenderness.  And  if  there  lived  ever  in 
her  heart  an  old  girlish  liking  for  the  school-boy 
Clarence,  it  is  all  gone  before  the  romantic  lover  of  the 
elegant  Laura ;  or  at  most,  it  lies  in  some  obscure 
corner  of  her  soul,  never  to  be  brought  to  light. 

You  enter  upon  the  new  pursuits,  which  your  father 
has  advised,  with  a  lofty  consciousness, — not  only  of  the 
strength  of  your  mind,  but  of  your  heart.  You  relieve 
your  opening  professional  study,  with  long  letters  to 


A    BROKEN    HOPE.  189 

Miss  Dalton,  full  of  Shakspearean  compliments,  and 
touched  off  with,  very  dainty  elaboration.  And  you 
receive  pleasant,  gossipping  notes  in  answer, — full  of 
quotations,  but  meaning  very  little. 

Youth  is  in  a  grand  flush,  like  the  hot  days  of 
ending  summer  ;  and  pleasant  dreams  thrall  your  spirit, 
like  the  smoky  atmosphere  that  bathes  the  landscape  of 
an  August  day.  Hope  rides  high  in  the  Heavens,  as 
when  the  summer  sun  mounts  nearest  to  the  zenith. 
Youth  feels  the  fullness  of  maturity,  before  the  second 
season  of  life  is  ended :  yet  is  it  a  vain  maturity,  and 
all  the  glow  is  deceitful.  Those  fruits  that  ripen  in 
summer  do  not  last.  They  are  sweet  ;  they  are 
glowing  with  gold;  but  they  melt  with  a  luscious 
softness  upon  the  lip.  They  do  not  give  that 
strength,  and  nutriment,  which  will  bear  a  man  bravely 
through  the  coming  chills  of  winter. 

The  last  scene  of  summer  changes  now  to  tho 
cobwebbed  ceiling  of  an  attorney's  office.  Books  of 
law,  scattered  ingloriously  at  your  elbow,  speak  dully  to 
the  flush  of  your  vanities.  You  are  seated  at  your  side 
desk,  where  you  have  wrought  at  those  heavy,  mechanic 
labors  of  drafting,  which  go  before  a  knowledge  of 
your  craft. 

A  letter  is  by  you,  which  you  regard  with  strange 
feelings :  it  is  yet  unopened.     It  comes  from  Laura.     It 


190  DRE  A  M-L  i  F  E. 

is  in  reply  to  one  which  has  cost  you  very  much  of 
exquisite  elaboration.  You  have  made  your  avowal 
of  feeling,  as  much  like  a  poem,  as  your  education 
would  admit.  Indeed,  it  was  a  pretty  letter, — pro 
mising,  not  so  much  the  trustful  love  of  an  earnest,  and 
devoted  heart, — as  the  fervor  of  a  passion  which 
consumed  you,  and  glowed  like  a  furnace  through  the 
lines  of  your  letter.  It  was  a  confession,  in  which  your 
vanity  of  intellect  had  taken  very  entertaining  part ;  and 
in  which,  your  judgment  was  too  cool  to  appear  at  all. 

She  must  needs  break  out  into  raptures  at  such  a 
letter ;  and  her  own,  will  doubtless  be  tempered  with 
even  greater  passion. 

It  is  well  to  shift  your  chair  somewhat,  so  that 
the  clerks  of  the  office  may  not  see  your  emotion  as 
you  read.  It  would  be  silly  to  manifest  your  exuber 
ance  in  a  dismal,  dark  office  of  your  instructing  attorney. 
One  sighs  rather  for  woods,  and  brooks,  and  sunshine, 
in  whose  company,  the  hopes  of  youth  stretch  into 
fulfillment. 

We  will  look  only  at  a  closing  passage  : — 

"My  friend  Clarence  will  I  trust  believe  me, 

when  I  say  that  his  letter  was  a  surprise  to  me.  To 
say  that  it  was  very  grateful,  would  be  what  my 
womanly  vanity  could  not  fail  to  claim.  I  only  wish 
that  1  was  equal  to  the  flattering  portrait  which  he  has 


A    BROKEN    HOPE.  191 

drawn.  I  even  half  fancy  that  he  is  joking  me,  and  can 
hardly  believe  that  my  matronly  air  should  have  quite 
won  his  youthful  heart.  At  least  I  shall  try  not  to 
believe  it ;  and  when  I  welcome  him  one  day,  the  husband 
of  some  fairy,  who  is  worthy  of  his  love,  we  win  smile 
together  at  the  old  lady,  who  once  played  the  Circe 
to  his  senses.  Seriously,  my  friend  Clarence,  I  know 
your  impulse  of  heart  has  carried  you  away :  and  that 
in  a  year's  time,  you  will  smile  with  me,  at  your  old 
penchant  for  one  so  much  your  senior,  and  so  ill-suited 
to  your  years,  as  your  true  friend,  LAURA." 

Magnificent  Miss  Dalton ! 

Read  it  again.  Stick  your  knife  in  the  desk  : — tut ! 
— you  will  break  the  blade  !  Fold  up  the  letter  care 
fully,  and  toss  it  upon  your  pile  of  papers.  Open 
Chitty  again ; — pleasant  reading  is  Chitty !  Lean  upon 
your  hand — your  two  hands ; — so  that  no  one  will 
catch  sight  of  your  face.  Chitty  is  very  interesting ; — 
how  sparkling  and  imaginative  —  what  a  depth  and 
flow  of  passion  in  Chitty ! 

The  office  is  a  capital  place — so  quiet  and  sunny. 
Law  is  a  delightful  study — so  captivating,  and  such 
stores  of  romance  !  And  then  those  trips  to  the  Hall 
offer  such  relief  and  variety; — especially  just  now. 
It  would  be  well  not  to  betray  your  eagerness  to  go. 
You  can  brush  your  hat  a  round  or  two,  and  take  a  • 


192  DREAM -LIFE. 

peep  into  the  broken  bit  of  looking-glass,  over  the 
wash-stand. 

You  lengthen  your  walk,  as  you  sometimes  do,  by  a 
stroll,  upon  the  Battery — though  rarely,  upon  such 
a  blustering  November  day.  You  put  your  hands 
in  your  pockets,  and  look  out  upon  the  tossing  sea. 

It  is  a  fine  sight — very  fine.  There  are  few  finer 
bays  in  the  world  than  New  York  bay  ;  either  to  look 
at,  or — for  that  matter — to  sleep  in.  The  ships  ride 
up  thickly,  dashing  about  the  cold  spray  delightfully ; 
the  little  cutters  gleam  in  the  November  sunshine,  like 
white  flowers  shivering  in  the  wind. 

The  sky  is  rich — all  mottled  with  cold,  gray  streaks 
of  cloud.  The  old  apple-women,  with  their  noses  frost 
bitten,  look  cheerful,  and  blue.  The  ragged  immi 
grants  in  short-trowsers,  and  bell-crowned  hats,  stalk 
about  with  a  very  happy  expression,  and  very  short 
stemmed  pipes;  their  yellow-haired  babies  look  com 
fortably  red,  and  glowing.  And  the  trees  with  their 
scant,  pinched  foliage,  have  a  charming,  summer-like 
effect  1 

Amid  it  all,  the  thoughts  of  the  boudoir,  and 
harpsichord,  and  gold-finches,  and  Axminster  carpets, 
and  sunshine,  and  Laura,  are  so  very — very  pleasant ! 
How  delighted  you  would  be  to  see  her  married  to  the 
stout  man  in  the  red  cravat,  who  gave  her  bouquets, 
and  strolled  with  her  on  the  deck  of  the  steamer  upon 


A    BROKEN    HOPE.  193 

the  St.  Lawrence  !  What  a  jaunty,  self-satisfied  ah-  he 
wore  ;  and  with  what  considerate  forbearance  he  treated 
you — calling  you  once  or  twice — Master  Clarence ! 
It  never  occurred  to  you  before,  bow  much  you  must 
be  indebted  to  that  pleasant,  stout  man. 

You  try  sadly  to  be  cheerful ;  you  smile  oddly ; 
your  pride  comes  strongly  to  your  help,  but  yet  helps 
you  very  little.  It  is  not  so  much  a  broken  heart,  that 
you  have  to  mourn  over,  as  a  broken  dream.  You 
seem  to  see  in  a  hundred  ways  that  had  never  occurred 
to  you  before,  the  marks  of  her  superior  age.  Abovo 
all,  it  is  manifest  in  the  cool,  and  unimpassioned  tone 
of  her  letter.  Yet,  how  kindly,  withal !  It  would  be 
a  relief  to  be  angry. 

New  visions  come  to  you,  wakened  by  the  broken 
fancy  which  has  just  now  eluded  your  grasp.  You 
will  make  yourself,  if  not  old, — at  least,  gifted  with  the 
force  and  dignity  of  age.  You  will  be  a  man ;  and 
build  no  more  castles,  until  you  can  people  them  with 
men.  In  an  excess  of  pride,  you  even  take  umbrage 
at  the  sex ;  they  can  have  little  appreciation  of  that 
engrossing  tenderness,  of  which  you  feel  yourself  to  be 
capable.  Love  shall  henceforth  be  dead,  and  you 
will  live  boldly  without  it. 

Just  so,  when  some  dark,  eastern  cloud-bank 

shrouds  for  a  morning,  the  sun  of  later  August,  we  say 

in   our   shivering    pride — the   winter  is   come   early! 
9 


194  DREAM-LIFE. 

But  God  manages  the  seasons  better  tlian  we;  and 
in  a  day,  or  an  hour  perhaps,  the  cloud  will  pass,  and 
the  heavens  glow  again  upon  our  ungrateful  heads. 

Well,  it  is  even  so,  that  the  passionate  dreams 
of  youth  break  up,  and  wither.  Vanity  becomes 
tempered  with  wholesome  pride ;  and  passion  yields  to 
the  riper  judgment  of  manhood ; — even  as  the  August 
heats  pass  -  on,  and  over,  into  the  genial  glow  of  a 
September  sun.  There  is  a  strong  growth  in  the 
struggles  against  mortified  pride  ;  and  then  only,  does 
the  youth  get  an  ennobling  consciousness  of  that 
manhood  which  is  dawning  hi  him,  when  he  has  fairly 
surmounted  those  punv  vexations,  which  a  wounded 
vanity  creates. 

Now,  your  heart  is  driven  home ; — and  that  cherished 
place,  where,  so  little  while  ago,  you  wore  your  vanities 
with  an  air,  that  mocked  even  your  grief,  and  that 
subdued  your  better  nature,  seems  to  stretch  toward 
you,  over  long  miles  of  distance, — its  wings  of  love ; 
and  to  welcome  back  to  the  sister's,  and  the  father's 
heart — not  the  self-sufficient,  and  vaunting  youth, — 
but  the  brother  and  son, — the  school-boy,  Clarence. 
Like  a  thirsty  child,  jou  stray  in  thought,  to  that 
fountain  of  cheer ;  and  live  again, — your  vanity  crushed, 
your  wild  hope  broken, — in  the  warm,  and  natural 
affections  of  the  boyish  home. 


A    BROKEN    HOPE.  195 

Clouds    weave    the    SUMMER  into   the  season   of 

A.UTUMN  :   and  YOUTH  rises  from  dashed  hopes,  into 
the  stature  of  a  MAN. 


Qttttmmt ; 

<Dr, 

?Brcam0  of  Jflanl)oob 


DREAMS    OF    MANHOOD. 


AUTUMN. 

rTlHERE  are  those  who  shudder  at  the  approach 
JL.  of  Autumn ;  and  who  feel  a  light  grief  stealing 
over  their  spirits,  like  an  October  haze,  as  the  evening 
shadows  slant  sooner,  and  longer,  over  the  face  of  an 
ending  August  day. 

But  is  not  Autumn  the  Manhood  of  the  year  ?  Is 
it  not  the  ripest  of  the  seasons  ?  Do  not  proud  flowers 
blossom  ; — the  golden  rod,  the  orchis,  the  dahlia, 
and  the  bloody  cardinal  of  the  swamp-lands  ? 

The  fruits  too  are  golden,  hanging  heavy  from  the 
tasked  trees.  The  fields  of  maize  show  weeping 
spindles,  and  broad  rustling  leaves,  and  ears,  half 
glowing  with  the  crowded  corn ;  the  September  wind 
whistles  over  their  thick-set  ranks,  with  whispers  of 


200  DREAM-LIFE 

plenty.  The  staggering  stalks  of  the  buck- wheat,  grow 
red  with  ripeness ;  and  tip  their  tops  with  clustering, 
tri-cornered  kernels. 

The  cattle  loosed  from  the  summer's  yoke,  grow 
strong  upon  the  meadows,  new  starting  from  the 
scythe.  The  lambs  of  April,  rounded  into  fullness 
of  limb,  and  gaming  day  by  day  their  woolly  cloak, 
bite  at  the  nodding  clover-heads ;  or,  with  their  noses 
to  the  ground,  they  stand  in  solemn,  circular  conclave, 
under  the  pasture  oaks,  while  the  noon  sun  beats  with 
the  lingering  passion  of  July. 

The  Bob-o'-Lincolns  have  come  back  from  their 
Southern  rambles  among  the  rice,  all  speckled  with 
gray ;  and — singing  no  longer  as  they  did  in  Spring, — 
they  quietly  feed  upon  the  ripened  reeds,  that  straggle 
along  the  borders  of  the  walls.  The  larks,  with  their 
black  and  yellow  breast-plates,  and  lifted  heads,  stand 
tall  upon  the  close-mown  meadow ;  and  at  your 
first  motion  of  approach,  spring  up,  and  soar  away, 
and  light  again ;  and  with  their  lifted  heads,  renew 
the  watch.  The  quails,  in  half-grown  coveys,  saunter 
hidden,  through  the  underbrush  that  skirts  the  wood ; 
and  only  when  you  are  close  upon  them,  whir  away, 
and  drop  scattered  under  the  coverts  of  the  forest. 

The  robins,  long  ago  deserting  the  garden  neighbor 
hood,  feed  at  eventide,  in  flocks,  upon  the  bloody 
berries  of  the  sumac ;  and  the  soft-eyed  pigeons 


AUTUMN.  201 

dispute  possession  of  the  feast.  The  squirrels  chatter 
at  sun-rise,  and  gnaw  off  the  full-grown  burs  of  the 
chesnuts.  The  lazy  black-birds  skip  after  the  loitering 
cow,  watchful  of  the  crickets,  that  her  slow  steps  start 
to  danger.  The  crows,  in  companies,  caw  aloft ; 
and  hang  high  over  the  carcase  of  some  slaughtered 
sheep,  lying  ragged  upon  the  hills. 

The  ash  trees  grow  crimson  in  color,  and  lose  their 
summer  life  in  great  gouts  of  blood.  The  birches  touch 
then*  frail  spray  with  yellow ;  the  chesnuts  drop  down 
their  leaves  in  brown,  twirling  showers.  The  beeches 
crimped  with  the  frost,  guard  their  foliage,  until  each 
leaf  whistles  white,  in  the  November  gales.  The 
bitter-sweet  hangs  its  bare,  and  leaf-less  tendrils  from 
rock  to  tree,  and  sways  with  the  weight  of  its  brazen 
berries.  The  sturdy  oaks,  unyielding  to  the  winds, 
and  to  the  frosts,  struggle  long  against  the  approaches 
of  the  winter ;  and  in  their  struggles,  wear  faces  of 
orange,  of  scarlet,  of  crimson,  and  of  brown;  and 
finally,  yielding  to  swift  winds, — as  youth's  pride  yields 
to  manly  duty, — strew  the  ground  with  the  scattered 
glories  of  their  summer  strength ;  and  warm,  and  feed 
the  earth,  with  the  debris  of  their  leafy  honors. 

The   maple,   in   the   low-lands,   turns   suddenly  its 

silvery  greenness    into   orange  scarlet ;    and    in   the 

coming  chilliness  of  the  Autumn  eventide,  seems  to 

catch  the  glories  of  the  sunset ;  and  to  wear  them — 

9* 


202  DREAM-LIFE. 

as  a  sign  of  God's  ;ld  promise  in  Egypt, — like  a  pillar 
of  cloud,  by  day, — and  of  fire,  by  night. 

And  when  all  these  are  done ; — and  in  the  paved, 
and  noisy  aisles  of  the  city,  the  ailanthus,  with  all  its 
greenness  gone, — lifts  up  its  skeleton  fingers  to  the 
God  of  Autumn  and  of  storms, — the  dog-wood  still 
guards  its  crown;  and  the  branches  which  stretched 
their  white  canvass  in  April,  now  bear  up  a  spire  of 
bloody  tongues,  that  lie  against  the  leafless  woods,  like 
a  tree  on  fire. 

Autumn  brings  to  the  home,  the  cheerful  glow 
of  'first  fires.'  It  withdraws  the  thoughts  from  the 
wide  and  joyous  landscape  of  summer,  and  fixes  them 
upon  those  objects  which  bloom,  and  rejoice  within 
the  household.  The  old  hearth  that  has  rioted  the 
summer  through  with  boughs  and  blossoms,  gives 
up  its  withered  tenantry.  The  fire-dogs  gleam  kindly 
upon  the  evening  hours ;  and  the  blaze  wakens  those 
sweet  hopes,  and  prayers,  which  cluster  around  the 
fireside  of  home. 

The  wanton  and  the  riot  of  the  season  gone,  are 
softened  in  memory,  and  supply  joys  to  the  season 
to  come; — just  as  youth's  audacity  and  pride,  give 
a  glow  to  the  recollections  of  our  manhood. 

At  mid-day,  the  air  is  mild  and  soft ;  a  warm,  blue 
smoke  lies  in  the  mountain  gaps ;  the  tracery  of  distant 
woods  upon  the  upland,  hangs  in  the  haze,  with 


AUTUMN.  203 

a  dreamy  gorgeousness  of  coloring.  The  river  runs 
low  with  August  drought ;  and  frets  upon  the  pebbly 
bottom,  with  a  soft,  low  murmur, — as  of  joyousness 
gone  by.  The  hemlocks  of  the  river  bank,  rise  in 
tapering  sheens,  and  tell  tales  of  Spiing. 

As  the  sun  sinks,  doubling  h'^  disc  in  the  October 
smoke,  the  low,  south  wind  creeps  over  the  withered 
tree-tops,  and  drips  the  leaves  upon  the  land.  The 
windows  that  were  wide  open  at  noon,  are  closed; 
and  a  bright  blaze — to  drive  off  the  Eastern  dampness, 
that  promises  a  storm, — flashes  lightly,  and  kindly, 
over  the  book-shelves  and  busts,  upon  my  wall. 

As  the  sun  sinks  lower,  and  lower,  his  red  beams 
die  in  a  sea  of  great,  gray  clouds.  Slowly,  and  quietly, 
they  creep  up  over  the  night-sky.  Venus  is  shrouded. 
The  Western  stars  blink  faintly, — then  fade  in  the 
mounting  vapors.  The  vane  points  East  of  South. 
The  constellations  in  the  Zenith,  struggle  to  be  seen ; — 
but  presently  give  over,  and  hide  their  shining. 

By  late  lamp-light,  the  sky  is  all  gray  and  dark  :  the 
vane  has  turned  two  points  nearer  East.  The  clouds 
spit  fine  rain-drops,  that  you  only  feel,  with  your  face 
turned  to  the  heavens.  But  soon,  they  grow  thicker 

and  heavier ;  and,  as  I  sit,  watching  the  blaze,  and 

dreaming they  patter  thick  and  fast  under  the 

driving  wind,  upon  the  window, — like  the  swift  tread 
of  an  army  of  MEN  ! 


PRIDE    OF    MANLINESS. 

AND  has  manhood  no  dreams  ?  Does  the  soul 
•wither  at  that  Rubicon,  which  lies  between  the 
Gallic  country  of  youth,  and  the  Rome  of  manliness  ? 
Does  not  fancy  still  love  to  cheat  the  heart,  and  weave 
gorgeous  tissues  to  hang  upon  that  horizon,  which  lies 
along  the  years  that  are  to  come  ?  Is  happiness  so 
exhausted,  that  no  new  forms  of  it  lie  in  the  mines  of 
imagination,  for  busy  hopes  to  drag  up  to-day  ? 

Where  then  would  live  the  motives  to  an  upward 
looking  of  the  eye,  and  of  the  soul ; — where,  the 
beckonings  that  bid  us  ever — onward  ? 

But  these  later  dreams,  are  not  the  dreams  of  fond 
boyhood,  whose  eye  sees  rarely  below  the  surface  of 
things ;  nor  yet  the  delicious  hopes  of  sparkling- 


PRIDE    OF    MANLINESS.  205 

blooded  youth :  they  are  dreams  of  sober  trustfulness, 
of  practical  results,  of  hard-wrought  world-success,  and 
— may  be — of  Love  and  of  Joy. 

Ambitious  forays  do  not  rest,  where  they  rested 
once  :  hitherto,  the  balance  of  youth  has  given  you,  in 
all  that  you  have  dreamed  of  accomplishment, — a 
strong  vantage  against  age  :  hitherto,  in  all  your 
estimates,  you  have  been  able  to  multiply  them  by  that 
access  of  thought,  and  of  strength,  which  manhood 
would  bring  to  you.  Now,  this  is  forever  ended. 

There  is  a  great  meaning  in  that  word — manhood. 
It  covers  all  human  growth.  It  supposes  no  extensions, 
or  increase;  it  is  integral,  fixed,  perfect — the  whole. 
There  is  no  getting  beyond  manhood ;  it  is  much 
to  live  up  to  it ;  but  once  reached,  you  are  all  that 
a  man  was  made  to  be,  in  this  world. 

It  is  a  strong  thought — that  a  man  is  perfected,' 
so  far  as  strength  goes ; — that  he  will  never  be  abler 
to  do  his  work,  than  under  the  very  sun  which  is  now 
shining  on  him.  There  is  a  seriousness,  that  few  call 
to  mind,  in  the  reflection,  that  whatever  you  do  in  this 
age  of  manhood,  is  an  unalterable  type  of  your  whole 
bigness.  You  may  qualify  particulars  of  your  char 
acter,  by  refinements,  by  special  studies,  and  practice ; 
but, — once  a  man, — and  there  is  no  more  manliness  to 
be  lived  for. 

This  thought  kindles  your  soul  to  new,  and  swifter 


206  DREAM-LIFE. 

dreams  of  ambition  than  belonged  to  youth.  They 
were  toys ;  these  are  weapons.  They  were  fancies ; 
these  are  motives.  The  soul  begins  to  struggle  with 
the  dust,  the  sloth,  the  circumstance,  that  beleaguer 
humanity,  and  to  stagger  into  the  van  of  action. 

Perception,  whose  limits  lay  along  a  narrow  horizon, 
now  tops  that  horizon,  and  spreads,  and  reaches  toward 
the  heaven  of  the  Infinite.  The  mind  feels  its  birth, 
and  struggles  toward  the  great  birth-master.  The 
heart  glows:  its  humanities  even,  yield  and  crimple 
under  the  fierce  heat  of  mental  pride.  Vows  leap 
upward,  and  pile  rampart  upon  rampart,  to  scab 
all  the  degrees  of  human  power. 

Are  there  not  times  in  every  man's  life  when  there 
flashes  on  him  a  feeling — nay,  more,  an  absolute 
conviction, — that  this  soul  is  but  a  spark  belonging 
to  some  upper  fire ;  and  that  by  as  much  as  we 
draw  near  by  effort,  by  resolve,  by  intensity  of 
endeavor,  to  that  upper  fire, — by  so  much,  we  draw 
nearer  to  our  home,  and  mate  ourselves  with  angels  ? 
Is  there  not  a  ringing  desire  in  many  minds  to  seize 
hold  of  what  floats  above  us  in  the  universe  of 
thought,  and  drag  down  what  shreds  we  can,  to 
scatter  to  the  world?  Is  it  not  belonging  to  great 
ness,  to  catch  lightning,  from  the  plains  where  lightning 
lives,  and  curb  it,  for  the  handling  of  men  ? 

Resolve  is  what  makes  a  man  manliest ; — not  puny 


PRIDE    OP    MANLINESS.  207 

resolve,  not  crude  determination,  not  errant  purpose, — 
but  that  strong,  and  indefatigable  will,  which  treads 
down  difficulties  and  danger,  as  a  boy  treads  down 
the  heaving  frost-lands  of  winter; — which  kindles  his 
eye  and  brain,  with  a  proud  pulse-beat  toward  the 
unattainable.  Will  makes  men  giants.  It  made 
Napoleon  an  Emperor  of  kings, — Bacon  a  fathomer 
of  nature, — Byron  a  tutor  of  passion,  and  the  martyrs, 
masters  of  Death. 

In  this  age  of  manhood,  you  look  back  upon  the 
dreams  of  the  years  that  are  past ;  they  glide  to  the 
vision  in  pompous  procession ;  they  seem  bloated  with 
infancy.  They  are  without  sinew  or  bone.  They 
do  not  bear  the  hard  touches  of  the  man's  hand. 

It  is  not  long,  to  be  sure,  since  the  summer  of  life 
ended  with  that  broken  hope ;  but  the  few  years  that 
lie  between  have  given  long  steps  upward.  The  little 
grief  that  threw  its  shadow,  and  the  broken  vision 
that  deluded  you,  have  made  the  passing  years  long, 
in  such  feeling  as  ripens  manhood.  Nothing  lays 
the  brown  of  autumn  upon  the  green  of  summer,  so 
quick  as  storms. 

There  have  been  changes  too  in  the  home  scenes ; 
these  graft  age  upon  a  man.  Nelly — your  sweet  Nelly 
of  childhood,  your  affectionate  sister  of  youth,  has 
grown  out  of  the  old  brotherly  companionship  into  the 
new  diginty  of  a  household. 


208  DREAM-LIFE. 

The  fire  flames  and  flashes  upon  the  accustomed 
hearth.  The  father's  chair  is  there  in  the  wonted 
corner;  he  himself — we  must  call  him  the  old  man 
now,  though  his  head  shows  few  white  honors — wears 
a  calmness  and  a  trust  that  light  the  failing  eye. 
Nelly  is  not  away  ;  Nelly  is  a  wife ;  and  the  husband 
yonder,  as  you  may  have  dreamed, — your  old  friend 
Frank. 

Her  eye  is  joyous ;  her  kindness  to  you  is  unabated ; 
her  care  for  you  is  quicker  and  wiser.  But  yet  the 
old  unity  of  the  household  seems  broken ;  nor  can  all 
her  winning  attentions  bring  back  the  feeling  which 
lived  in  Spring,  under  the  garret  roof. 

The  isolation,  the  unity,  the  integrity  of  manhood, 
make  a  strong  prop  for  the  mind ;  but  a  weak  one  for  the 
heart.  Dignity  can  but  poorly  fill  up  that  chasm  of 
the  soul,  which  the  home  affections  once  occupied. 
Life's  duties,  and  honors  press  hard  upon  the  bosom, 
that  once  throbbed  at  a  mother's  tones,  and  that 
bounded  in  a  mother's  smiles. 

In  such  home,  the  strength  you  boast  of,  seems  a 
weakness ;  manhood  leans  into  childish  memories,  and 
melts — as  Autumn  frosts  yield  to  a  soft,  south  wind, 
coming  from  a  Tropic  spring.  You  feel  in  a  desert 
where  you  once  felt  at  home — in  a  bounded  landscape, 
— that  was  once — the  world. 

The  tall  sycamores  have  dwindled  to  paltry  trees: 


PRIDE    OF    MANLINESS.  209 

the  hills  that  were  so  large,  and  lay  at  such  grand 
distance  to  the  eye  of  childhood,  are  now  near  by,  and 
have  fallen  away  to  mere  rolling  waves  of  upland. 
The  garden  fence  that  was  so  gigantic,  is  now  only 
a  simple  paling :  its  gate  that  was  such  a  cumbrous 
affair — reminding  you  of  Gaza — you  might  easily  lift 
from  its  hinges.  The  lofty  dovecote,  which  seemed  to 
rise  like  a  monument  of  art,  before  your  boyish  vision, 
is  now  only  a  flimsTT  box  upon  a  tall  spar  of  hemlock. 

The  garret  even,  with  its  lofty  beams,  its  dark  stains, 
and  its  obscure  corners,  where  the  white  hats,  and  coats 
hung  ghost-like,  is  but  a  low  loft,  darkened  by  age, — 
hung  over  with  cobwebs,  dimly  lighted  with  foul 
windows, — its  romping  Charlie, — its  glee, — its  swing, — 
its  joy, — its  mystery,  all  gone  forever. 

The  old  gallipots,  and  retorts  are  not  anywhere  to  he 
seen  in  the  second  story  window  of  the  brick  school. 
Dr.  Bidlow  is  no  more !  The  trees  that  seemed  so 
large,  the  gymnastic  feats  that  were  so  extra  .ordinary, 
the  boy  that  made  a  snapper  of  his  handkerchief, — 
have  all  lost  their  greatness,  and  their  dread.  Even 
the  springy  usher,  who  dressed  his  hair  with  the  ferule, 
has  become  the  middle-aged  father  of  five  curly-headed 
boys,  and  has  entered  upon  what  once  seemed  the 
gigantic  commerce — of  *  stationery  and  account  books.' 

The  marvellous  labyrinth  of  closets,  at  the  old 
mansion  where  you  once  paid  a  visit — in  a  coach — is 


210  DREAM- LIFE. 

all  dissipated.  They  have  turned  out  to  be  the  meres* 
cupboards  in  the  wall.  Nat,  who  had  travelled,  and 
seen  London,  is  by  no  means  so  surprising  a  fellow  to 
your  manhood,  as  he  was  to  the  boy.  He  has  grown 
spare,  and  wears  spectacles.  He  is  not  so  famous  as  he 
was.  You  would  hardly  think  of  consulting  him  now 
about  your  marriage ;  or  even  about  the  price  of  goats 
upon  London  bridge. 

As  for  Jenny — your  first,  fond  flame  ! — lively, 
romantic,  black-eyed  Jenny, — the  reader  of  Thaddeus 
of  Warsaw, — who  sighed  and  wore  blue  ribbons  on  her 
bonnet, — who  wrote  love  notes, — who  talked  so  tenderly 
of  broken  hearts, — who  used  a  glass  seal  with  a  cupid 
and  a  dart, — dear  Jenny, — she  is  now  the  plump,  and 
thriving  wife  of  the  apothecary  of  the  town !  She 
sweeps  out  every  morning  at  seven,  the  little  entiy  of 
the  apothecary's  house :  she  buys  a  *  joint '  twice  a 
week  from  the  butcher,  and  is  particular  to  have  the 
*  knuckle '  thrown  in,  for  soups  :  she  wears  a  sky  blue 
calico  gown,  and  dresses  her  hair  in  three  little  flat 
quirls  on  either  side  of  her  head — each  one  pierced 
through  with  a  two-pronged  hair-pin. 

She  does  :ot  read  Thaddeus  of  Warsaw,  now. 


n. 

MAN    OF    THE    WORLD. 

FEW  persons  live  through,  the  first  periods  of 
manhood,    without    strong    temptations    to    be 
counted — '  men  of  the  world.'     The  idea  looms  grandly 
among  those  vanities,  that  hedge  a  man's  approach  to 
maturity. 

Clarence  is  in  good  training  for  the  acceptance  of 
this  idea.  The  broken  hope  which  clouded  his  closing 
youth,  shoots  over  its  influence  upon  the  dawn  of 
manhood.  Mortified  pride  had  taught — as  it  always 
teaches — not  caution  only,  but  doubt,  distrust,  indiffer 
ence.  A  new  pride  grows  up  on  the  ruins  of  the  old, 
weak,  and  vain  pride  of  youth.  Then,  it  was  a  pride 
of  learning,  or  of  affection  ;  now,  it  is  a  pride  of  indif 
ference.  Then,  the  world  proved  bleak,  and  cold,  as 


212  DREAM-LIFE. 

contrasted   with   his    shining    dreams  ;   and   now,  he 
accepts  the  proof,  and  wins  from  it  what  he  can. 

The  man  of  the  world  puts  on  the  method,  and 
measure  of  the  world :  he  studies  its  humors.  He 
gives  up  the  boyish  notion  of  a  sincerity  among  men, 
like  that  of  youth :  he  lives,  to  seem.  He  conquers 
such  annoyances  as  the  world  may  thrust  upon  him,  in 
the  shape  of  grief,  or  losses,  like  a  practised  athlete  of 
the  ring.  He  studies  moral  sparring. 

With  somewhat  of  this  strange  vanity  growing  on 
you,  you  do  not  suffer  the  heart  to  wake  into  life,  except 
in  such  fanciful  dreams  as  tempt  you  back  to  the  sunny 
slopes  of  childhood. 

In  this  mood,  you  fall  in  with  Dalton,  who  has  just 
returned  from  a  year  passed  in  the  French  Capital. 
There  is  an  easy  suavity,  and  graceful  indifference  in  his 
manner  that  chimes  admirably  with  your  humor.  Ho 
is  gracious,  without  needing  to  be  kind.  He  is  a  friend, 
without  any  challenge  or  proffer  of  sincerity.  He  is 
an  adept  in  those  world  tactics,  which  match 
him  with  all  men,  but  which  link  him  to  none.  He  has 
made  it  his  art  to  be  desired,  and  admired,  but  rarely  to 
be  trusted.  You  could  not  have  a  better  teacher. 

Under  such  instruction,  you  become  disgusted  for  the 
time,  with  any  effort,  or  pulse  of  affection,  which  does 
not  have  immediate  and  practical  bearing  upon  that 
success  in  life,  by  which  you  measure  your  hopes.  The 


MAN    OF    THE   WORLD.  213 

dreams  of  love,  of  romantic  adventure,  of  placid  joy, 
have  all  gone  out,  with  the  fantastic  images,  to  which 
your  passionate  youth  had  joined  them.  The  world  is 
now  regarded  as  a  tournament,  where  the  gladiator- 
ship  of  life  is  to  be  exhibited  at  your  best  endeavor. 
Its  honors  and  joy,  lie  in  a  brilliant  pennant,  and  a 
plaudit. 

Dalton  is  learned  in  those  arts  which  make  of  action 
— not  a  duty,  but  a  conquest ;  and  sense  of  duty  has 
expired  in  you,  with  those  romantic  hopes,  to  which 
you  bound  it, — not  as  much  through  sympathy,  as 
ignorance.  It  is  a  cold,  and  a  bitterly  selfish  work  that 
lies  before  you, — to  be  covered  over  with  such  borrowed 
show  of  smiles,  as  men  call  affability.  The  heart  wears 
a  stout,  brazen  screen  ;  its  inclinations  grow  to  the 
habit  of  your  ambitious  projects. 

In  such  mood  come  swift  dreams  of  wealth ; — not 
of  mere  accumulation,  but  of  the  splendor,  and  parade, 
which  in  our  western  world  are,  alas,  its  chiefest  attrac 
tions.  You  grow  observant  of  markets,  and  estimate 
per  centages.  You  fondle  some  speculation  in  your 
thought,  until  it  grows  into  a  gigantic  scheme  of  profit ; 
and  if  the  venture  prove  successful,  you  follow  the  tide 
tremulously,  until  some  sudden  reverse  throws  you 
back  upon  the  resources  of  your  professional  employ. 

But  again,  as  you  see  this  and  that  one  wearing  the 
blazonry  which  wealth  wins,  and  which  the  man  of  the 


214  DREAM-LIFE. 

world  is  sure  to  covet, — your  weak  soul  glows  again 
with  the  impassioned  desire ;  and  you  hunger,  with 
brute  appetite,  and  bestial  eye — for  riches.  You  see 
the  mania  around  you  ;  and  it  is  relieved  of  odium,  by 
the  community  of  error.  You  consult  some  gray  old 
veteran  in  the  war  of  gold,  scarred  with  wounds,  and 
crowned  with  honors  ;  and  watch  eagerly  for  the  words 
and  the  ways,  which  have  won  him  wealth. 

Your  fingers  tingle  with  mad  expectancies ;  your 
eyes  roam — lost  in  estimates.  Your  note-book  shows 
long  lines  of  figures.  Your  reading  of  the  news  centres 
in  the  stock  list.  Your  brow  grows  cramped  with  the 
fever  of  anxiety.  Through  whole  church  hours,  your 
dreams  range  over  the  shadowy  transactions  of  the 
week  or  the  month  to  come. 

Even  with  old  religious  habit  clinging  fast  to  your 
soul,  you  dream  now,  only  of  nice  conformity,  comfort 
able  faith,  high  respectability ;  there  lies  very  little  in 
you  of  that  noble  consciousness  of  Duty  performed, — 
of  living  up  to  the  Life  that  is  in  you, — of  grasping 
boldly,  and  stoutly,  at  those  chains  of  Love  which  the 
Infinite  Power  has  lowered  to  our  reach.  You  do  not 
dream  of  being,  but  of  seeming.  You  spill  the  real 
essence,  and  clutch  at  the  vial  which  has  only  a  label 
of  Truth.  Great  and  holy  thoughts  of  the  Future, — • 
shadowy,  yet  bold  conceptions  of  the  Infinite,  float  past 
you  dimly,  and  your  hold  is  never  strong  enough  to 


MAN    OF    THE  WORLD.  215 

grapple  them  to  you.  They  fly,  like  eagles,  too  near 
the  sun ;  and  there  lies  game  beJow,  for  your  vulture 
beak  to  feed  upon. 

[Great  thoughts  belong,  only  and  truly,  to  him 
whose  mind  can  hold  them.  No  matter  who  first  puts 
them  in  words  ;  if  they  come  to  a  soul,  and  fill  it,  they 
belong  to  it ; — whether  they  floated  on  the  voice  of 
others,  or  on  the  wings  of  silence,  and  the  night.] 

To  be  up  with  the  fashion  of  the  time, — to  be  igno 
rant  of  plain  things  and  people,  and  to  be  knowing  in 
brilliancies,  is  a  kind  of  Pelhamism,  that  is  very  apt  to 
overtake  one  in  the  first  blush  of  manhood.  To  hold 
a  fair  place  in  the  after-dinner  table-talk,  to  meet  dis 
tinction  as  a  familiarity,  to  wear  salon  honors  with 
aplomb,  to  know  affection  so  far  as  to  wield  it  into 
grace  of  language,  are  all  splendid  achievements  with  a 
man  of  the  world.  Instruction  is  caught,  without  ask 
ing  it ;  and  no  ignorance  so  shames,  as  ignorance  of 
those  forms,  by  which  natural  impulse  is  subdued  to 
the  tone  of  civilian  habit.  You  conceal  what  tells  of 
the  man  ;  and  cover  it  with  what  smacks  of  the  roue. 

Perhaps,  under  such  training,  and  with  a  slight 
memory  of  early  mortification  to  point  your  spirit,  you 
affect  those  gallantries  of  heart  and  action,  which  the 
world  calls  flirtation.  You  may  study  brilliancies  of 
speech,  to  wrap  their  net  around  those  susceptible 
hearts,  whose  habit  is  too  naive  by  nature,  to  wear  the 


216  DRKAM    LIFE. 

leaden  covering  of  custom.  You  win  approaches  by 
artful  counterfeit  of  earnestness ;  and  dash  away  any 
naivete  of  confidence,  with  some  brave  sophism  of  the 
world.  A  doubt  or  a  distrust,  piques  your  pride,  and 
makes  attentions  wear  a  humility  that  wins  anew.  An 
indifference  piques  you  more,  and  throws  into  your  art 
a  counter  indifference, — lit  up  by  bold  flashes  of  feel 
ing, — sparkling  with  careless  brilliancies,  and  crowned 
with  a  triumph  of  neglect. 

It  is  curious  how  ingeniously  a  man's  vanity  will 

frame  apologies  for  such  action. It  is  pleasant  to 

give  pleasure  ;  you  like  to  see  a  joyous  sparkle  of  the 
eye,  whether  lit  up  by  your  presence,  or  by  some  buoy 
ant  fancy.  It  is  a  beguiling  task  to  weave  words  into 
some  soft,  meLodious  flow,  that  shall  keep  the  ear,  and 
kindle  the  eye  ; — and  to  strew  it  over  with  half-hidden 
praises,  so  deftly  couched  in  double  terms,  that  their 
aroma  shall  only  come  to  the  heart  hours  afterward ; 
and  seem  to  be  the  merest  accidents  of  truth.  It  is 
a  happy  art  to  make  such  subdued  show  of  emotion, 
as  seems  to  struggle  with  pride ;  and  to  flush  the  eye 
with  a  moisture,  of  which  you  seem  ashamed,  and  yet 
are  proud.  It  is  a  pretty  practice,  to  throw  an  earnest 
ness  into  look  and  gesture,  that  shall  seem  full  of  plead 
ing,  and  yet — ask  nothing ! 

And  yet  it  is  hard  to  admire  greatly  the  reputation 
of  that  man,  who  builds  his  triumphs  upon  womanly 


MAN    OF    THE    WORLD.  217 

weakness  :  that  distinction  is  not  over  enduring,  whose 
chiefest  merit  springs  out  of  the  delusions  of  a  too 
trustful  heart.  The  man  who  wins  it,  wins  only  a 
poor  sort  of  womanly  distinction.  Without  power  to 
cope  with  men,  he  triumphs  over  the  weakness  of  the 
other  sex,  only  by  hypocrisy.  He  wears  none  of  the 
armor  of  Romans ;  and  he  parleys  with  Punic  faith. 

Yet,  even  now,  —  there  is  a  lurking  goodness 

in  you,  that  traces  its  beginnings  to  the  old  garret 
home ; — there  is  an  air  in  the  harvest  heats,  that  whis 
pers  of  the  bloom  of  spring. 

And  over  your  brilliant  career  as  man  of  the  world, — 
however  lit  up  by  a  morbid  vanity,  or  galvanized  by  a 
lascivious  passion,  there  will  come  at  times,  the  con 
sciousness  of  a  better  heart  struggling  beneath  your 
cankered  action, — like  the  low  Vesuvian  fire,  reeking 
vainly  under  rough  beds  of  tufa,  and  scoriated  lava. 
And  as  you  smile  in  loge,  or  salon,  with  daring  smiles ; 
or  press  with  villain  fondness,  the  hand  of  those  lady 
votaries  of  the  same  god  you  serve,  there  will  gleam 
upon  you,  over  the  waste  of  rolling  years,  a  memory 
that  quickens  again  the  nobler,  and  bolder  instincts  of 
the  heart. 

Childish  recollections,  with  their  purity,  and  earnest 
ness, — a  sister's  love, — a  mother's  solicitude,  will  flood 
your  soul  once  more  with  a  gushing  sensibility  that 

yearns  for  enjoyment.     And  the  consciousness  of  some 
10 


218  DREAM-LIFE. 

lingering  nobility  of  affection,  that  can  only  grow  great, 
in  mating  itself  with  nobility  of  heart,  will  sweep  off 
your  puny  triumphs,  your  Platonic  friendships,  your 
dashing  coquetries, — like  the  foul  smoke  of  a  city,  be 
fore  a  fresh  breeze  of  the  country  autumn. 


m. 

MANLY  HOPE. 

YOU  are  at  home  again ; — not  your  own  home, 
that  is  gone;  but  at  the  home  of  Nelly,  and 
of  Frank.  The  city  heats  of  summer  drive  you  to  the 
country.  You  ramble,  with  a  little  kindling  of  old 
desires  and  memories,  over  the  hill  sides  that  once 
bounded  your  boyish  vision.  Here,  you  netted  the 
wild  rabbits,  as  they  came  out  at  dusk,  to  feed ;  there, 
upon  that  tall  chesnut,  you  cruelly  maimed  your  first 
captive  squirrel.  The  old  maples  are  even  now  scarred 
with  the  rude  cuts  you  gave  them,  in  sappy  March. 

You  sit  down  upon  some  height,  overlooking  the 
valley  where  you  were  born;  you  trace  the  faint, 
silvery  line  of  river ;  you  detect  by  the  leaning  elm, 
your  old  bathing  place  upon  the  Saturdays  of  Summer. 


220  DREAM-LIFE. 

Your  eye  dwells  upon  some  patches  of  pasture  wood, 
which  were  famous  for  their  nuts.  Your  rambling, 
and  saddened  vision  roams  over  the  houses ;  it  traces 
the  familiar  chimney-stacks;  it  searches  out  the  low- 
l}ing  cottages ;  it  dwells  upon  the  gray  roof,  sleeping 
yonder  under  the  sycamores. 

Tears  swell  in  your  eye,  as  you  gaze;  you  cannot 
tell  whence,  or  why  they  come.  Yet  they  are  tears 
eloquent  of  feeling.  They  speak  of  brother  children — 
of  boyish  glee, — of  the  flush  of  young  health, — of  a 
mother's  devotion, — of  the  home  affections, — of  the 
vanities  of  life, — of  the  wasting  years,  of  the  Death 
that  must  shroud  what  friends  remain,  as  it  has 
shrouded  what  friends  have  gone, — and  of  that  GREAT 
HOPE,  beaming  on  your  sered  manhood  dimly,  from 
the  upper  world. 

Your  wealth  suffices  for  all  the  luxuries  of  life : 
there  is  no  fear  of  coming  want ;  health  beats  strong 
in  your  veins ;  you  have  learned  to  hold  a  place  in  the 
world,  with  a  man's  strength,  and  a  man's  confidence. 
And  yet  in  the  view  of  those  sweet  scenes  which 
belonged  to  early  days,  when  neither  strength,  con 
fidence,  nor  wealth  were  yours,  days  never  to  come 
again, — a  shade  of  melancholy  broods  upon  your 
spirit,  and  covers  with  its  veil  all  that  fierce  pride 
which  your  worldly  wisdom  has  wrought. 

You  visit  again,  with  Frank,  the  country  homestead 


MANLY    HOPE.  221 

of  his  grandfather ;  he  is  dead ;  but  the  old  lady  still 
lives ;  and  blind  Fanny,  now  drawing  toward  woman 
hood,  weal's  yet  through  her  darkened  life,  the  same 
air  of  placid  content,  and  of  sweet  trustfulness  in 
Heaven.  The  boys  whom  you  astounded  with  your 
stories  of  books  are  gone,  building  up  now  with  steady 
industry  the  queen  cities  of  our  new  Western  land.  The 
old  clergyman  is  gone  from  the  desk,  and  from  under 
his  sounding  board ;  he  sleeps  beneath  a  brown  stone 
slab  in  the  church  yard.  The  stout  deacon  is  dead ; 
his  wig  and  his  wickedness  rest  together.  The  tall 
chorister  sings  yet:  but  they  have  now  a  bass-viol — 
handled  by  a  new  schoolmaster,  in  place  of  his  tuning 
fork;  and  the  years  have  sown  feeble  quavers  in  his 
voice. 

Once  more  you  meet  at  the  home  of  Nelly, — the 
blue  eyed  Madge.  The  sixpence  is  all  forgotten ;  you 
cannot  tell  where  your  half  of  it  is  gone.  Yet  she  is 
beautiful — just  budding  into  the  full  ripeness  of  woman 
hood.  Her  eyes  have  a  quiet,  still  joy,  and  hope 
beaming  in  them,  like  angel's  looks.  Her  motions  have 
a  native  grace,  and  freedom,  that  no  culture  can 
bestow.  Her  words  have  a  gentle  earnestness  and 
honesty,  that  could  never  nurture  guile. 

You  had  thought,  after  your  gay  experiences  of  the 
world,  to  meet  her  with  a  kind  condescension,  as  an 
old  friend  of  Nelly's.  But  there  is  that  in  her  eye, 


222  DREAM-LIFE. 

which  forbids  all  thought  of  condescension.  There  is 
that  in  her  air,  which  tells  of  a  high  womanly  dignity, 
which  can  only  be  met  on  equal  ground.  Your  pride 
is  piqued.  She  has  known — she  must  know  your 
history ;  but  it  does  not  tame  her.  There  is  no  marked 
and  submissive  appreciation  of  your  gifts,  as  a  man  of 
the  world. 

She  meets  your  happiest  compliments  with  a  very 
easy  indifference ;  she  receives  your  elegant  civilities 
with  a  veiy  assured  brow.  She  neither  courts  your 
society,  nor  avoids  it.  She  does  not  seek  to  provoke 
any  special  attention.  And  only  when  your  old-self 
glows  in  some  casual  kindness  to  Nelly,  does  her  look 
beam  with  a  flush  of  sympathy. 

This  look  touches  you.  It  makes  you  ponder  on 
the  noble  heart  that  lives  in  Madge.  It  makes  you 
wish  it  were  yours.  But  that  is  gone.  The  fervor 
and  the  honesty  of  a  glowing  youth,  is  swallowed  up 
in  the  flash  and  splendor  of  the  world.  A  half-regret 
chases  over  you  at  night-fall,  when  solitude  pierces  you 
with  the  swift  dart  of  gone-by  memories.  But  at 
morning,  the  regret  dies,  in  the  glitter  of  ambitious 
purposes. 

The  summer  months  linger;  and  still  you  linger 
with  them.  Madge  is  often  with  Nelly ;  and  Madge 
is  never  less  than  Madge.  You  venture  to  point  your 
attentions  with  a  little  more  fervor ;  but  she  meets  the 


MANLY    HOPE.  223 

fervor  with  no  glow.     She  knows  too  well  the  habit 
of  your  life. 

Strange  feelings  come  over  you ; — feelings  like  half- 
forgotten  memories — musical — dreamy — doubtful.  You 
have  seen  a  hundred  faces  more  brilliant  than  that 
of  Madge ;  you  have  pressed  a  hundred  jewelled  hands 
that  have  returned  a  half-pressure  to  yours.  You  do 
not  exactly  admire; — to  love,  you  have  forgotten; — 
you  only — linger ! 

It  is  a  soft  autumn  evening,  and  the  harvest  moon  is 
red  and  round  over  the  eastern  skirt  of  woods.  You 
are  attending  Madge  to  that  little  cottage  home,  where 
lives  that  gentle  and  doting  mother,  who  in^the  midst 
of  comparative  poverty,  cherishes  that  refined  delicacy 
which  never  comes  to  a  child,  but  by  inheritance. 

Madge  has  been  passing  the  day  with  Nelly.  Some 
thing — it  may  be  the  soft  autumn  air  wafting  toward 
you  the  freshness  of  young  days, — moves  you  to  speak, 
as  you  have  not  ventured  to  speak, — as  your  vanity 
has  not  allowed  you  to  speak  before. 

"You  remember,  Madge,  (you  have  guarded  this 
sole  token  of  boyish  intimacy)  our  split  sixpence  ?" 

"  Perfectly  :"  it  is  a  short  word  to  speak,  and  there 
is  no  tremor  in  her  tone — not  the  slightest. 

"  You  have  it  yet  T 


224  DREAM-LIFE. 

"  I  dare  say,  I  have  it  somewhere  :"  no  tremor  now : 
she  is  very  composed. 

"  That  was  a  happy  time :"  very  great  emphasis  on 
the  word  happy. 

"  Very  happy :" — no  emphasis  anywhere. 

"  I  sometimes  wish  I  might  live  it  over  again." 

"  Yes  ?" — inquiringly. 

"  There  are  after  all  no  pleasures  in  the  world  like 


"  No  ?" — inquiringly  again. 

You  thought  you  had  learned  to  have  language  at 
command :  you  never  thought,  after  so  many  years 
schooling  of  the  world,  that  your  pliant  tongue  would 
play  you  truant.  Yet  now, — you  are  silent. 

The  moon  steals  silvery  into  the  light  flakes  of 
cloud,  and  the  air  is  soft  as  May.  The  cottage  is  in 
sight.  Again  you  risk  utterance : — 

"  You  must  live  very  happily  here." 

"  I  have  very  kind  friends :" — the  very,  is  emphasized. 

"  I  am  sure  Nelly  loves  you  very  much." 

"  Oh,  I  believe  it !" — with  great  earnestness. 

You  are  at  the  cottage  door  : — 

"  Good  night,  Maggie," — very  feelingly. 

"  Good  night,  Clarence," — very  kindly ;  and  she 
draws  her  hand  coyly,  and  half  tremulously,  from  your 
somewhat  fevered  grasp. 

You  stroll  away  dreamily, — watching  the  moon, — 


MANLY    HOPE.  225 

running  over  your  fragmentary  life; — half  moody, — 
half  pleased, — half  hopeful. 

You  come  back  stealthily,  and  with  a  heart  throbbing 
with  a  certain  wild  sense  of  shame,  to  watch  the  light 
gleaming  in  the  cottage.  You  linger  in  the  shadows 
of  the  trees,  until  you  catch  a  glimpse  of  her  figure, 
gliding  past  the  window.  You  bear  the  image  home 
with  you.  You  are  silent  on  your  return.  You  retire 
early  ; — but  you  do  not  sleep  early. 

If  you  were  only  as  you  were  : — if  it  were  not 

too  late  !  If  Madge  could  only  love  you,  as  you  know 
she  will,  and  must  love  one  manly  heart,  there  would  be 
a  world  of  joy  opening  before  you. 

You  draw  out  Nelly  to  speak  of  Madge :  Nelly  is 
very  prudent.  "Madge  is  a  dear  girl," — she  says. 
Does  Nelly  even  distrust  you  ?  It  is  a  sad  thing  to  be 
too  much  a  man  of  the  world. 

You  go  back  again  to  noisy,  ambitious  life  :  you  try 
to  drown  old  memories  in  its  blaze,  and  its  vanities. 
Your  lot  seems  cast,  beyond  all  change  ;  and  you  task 
yourself  with  its  noisy  fulfilment.  But  amid  the 
silence,  and  the  toil  of  your  office  hours,  a  strange 
desire  broods  over  your  spirit ; — a  desire  for  more  of 
manliness, — that  manliness  which  feels  itself  a  protector 
of  loving,  and  trustful  innocence. 

You  look  around  upon  the  faces  in  which  you  have 
smiled  unmeaning  smiles: — there  is  nothing  there  to 
10* 


226  DREAM-LIFE. 

feed  your  dawning  desires.  You  meet  with  those  ready 
to  court  you  by  flattering  your  vanity — by  retailing  the 
praises  of  what  you  may  do  well, — by  odious  familiarity, 
— by  brazen  proffer  of  friendship ;  but  you  see  in  it 
only  the  emptiness,  and  the  vanity,  which  you  have 
studied  to  enjoy. 

Sickness  comes  over  you,  and  binds  you  for  weary 
days  and  nights  ; — in  which  life  hovers  doubtfully,  and 
the  lips  babble  secrets  that  you  cherish.  It  is  aston 
ishing  how  disease  clips  a  man  from  the  artificialities  of 
the  world.  Lymg  lonely  upon  his  bed,  moaning, 
writhing,  suffering,  his  soul  joins  on  to  the  universe  of 
souls  by  only  natural  bonds.  The  factitious  ties  of 
wealth,  of  place,  of  reputation,  vanish  from  his  bleared 
eyes  ;  and  the  earnest  heart,  deep  under  all,  craves 
only — heartines. 

The  old  yearning  of  the  office  silence  comes  back : — 
not  with  the  proud  wish  only — of  being  a  protector,  but 
—of  being  protected.  And  whatever  may  be  the  trust 
in  that  beneficent  Power,  who  *  chasteneth  whom  he 
loveth,' — there  is  yet  an  earnest,  human  leaning  toward 
some  one,  whose  love — most,  and  whose  duty — least, 
would  call  her  to  your  side ; — whose  soft  hands  would 
cool  the  fever  of  yours, — whose  step  would  wake  a 
throb  of  joy, — whose  voice  would  tie  you  to  life,  and 
whose  presence  would  make  the  worst  of  Death — an 
Adieu! 


MANLY    HOPE.  22*7 

As  you  gain  strength  once  more,  you  go  back  to 
Nelly's  home.  Her  kindness  does  not  falter ;  every 
care  and  attention  belong  to  you  there.  Again  your 
eye  rests  upon  that  figure  of  Madge,  and  upon  her  face, 
wearing  an  even  gentler  expression,  as  she  sees  you 
sitting  pale  and  feeble  by  the  old  hearth-stone.  She 
brings  flowers — for  Nelly :  you  beg  Nelly  to  place 
them  upon  the  little  table  at  your  side.  It  is  as  yet 
the  only  taste  of  the  country  that  you  can  enjoy.  You 
love  those  flowers. 

After  a  time  you  grow  strong,  and  walk  in  the  fields. 
You  linger  until  nightfall.  You  pass  by  the  cottage 
where  Madge  lives.  It  is  your  pleasantest  walk.  The 
trees  are  greenest  in  that  direction ;  the  shadows  are 
softest ;  the  flowers  are  thickest. 

It  is  strange — this  feeling  in  you.  It  is  not  the  feel 
ing  you  had  for  Laura  Dalton.  It  does  not  even 
remind  of  that.  That  was  an  impulse;  but  this  is 
growth.  That  was  strong ;  but  this  is — strength.  You 
catch  sight  of  her  little  notes  to  Nelly ;  you  read  them 
over  and  over ;  you  treasure  them ;  you  learn  them  by 
heart.  There  is  something  in  the  veiy  writing,  that 
touches  you. 

You  bid  her  adieu  with  tones  of  kindness  that  trem 
ble; — and  that  meet  a  half-trembling  tone  in  reply. 
She  is  very  good. 

—If  it  were  not  too  late  I 


IV. 

MANLY    LOVE. 


AND  shall  pride  yielc 
Pride! i 


ND  shall  pride  yield  at  length  ? 

-and  what  has  love  to  do  with 
pride  ?     Let  us  see  how  it  is. 

Madge  is  poor ;  she  is  humble.  You  are  rich ;  you 
are  a  man  of  the  world ;  you  are  met  respectfully  by 
the  veterans  of  fashion ;  you  have  gained  perhaps  a 
kind  of  brilliancy  of  position. 

Would  it  then  be  a  condescension  to  love  Madge  ? 
Dare  you  ask  yourself  such  a  question  ?  Do  you  not 
know, — in  spite  of  your  worldliness, — that  the  man  or 
the  woman  who  condescends  to  love,  never  loves  in  ear 
nest? 

But  again,  Madge  is  possessed  of  a  purity,  a  delicacy, 
and  a  dignity  that  lift  her  far  above  you, — that  make  you 


MANLY    LOVE.  229 

feel  your  weakness,  and  your  unworthiness ;  and  it  is 
the  deep,  and  the  mortifying  sense  of  this  unworthiness, 
that  makes  you  bolster  yourself  upon  your  pride.  You 
know  that  you  do  yourself  honor,  in  loving  such  grace 
and  goodness  ; — you  know  that  you  would  be  honored 
tenfold  more  than  you  deserve,  in  being  loved — by  so 
much  grace,  and  goodness. 

It  scarce  seems  to  you  possible  ;  it  is  a  joy  too  great 
to  be  hoped  for  :  and  in  the  doubt  of  its  attainment, 
your  old,  worldly-vanity  comes  in,  and  tells  you  to — 
beware ;  and  to  live  on,  in  the  splendor  of  your  dissipa 
tion,  and  in  the  lusts  of  your  selfish  habit.  Yet  still, 
underneath  all,  there  is  a  deep,  low,  heart-voice, — 
quickened  from  above, — which  assures  you  that  you 
are  capable  of  better  things ; — that  you  are  not  wholly 
lost ;  that  a  mine  of  unstarted  tenderness  still  lies 
smouldering  in  your  soul. 

And  with  this  sense  quickening  your  better  nature, 
you  venture  the  wealth  of  your  whole  heart-life,  upon 
the  hope  that  now  blazes  on  your  path. 

You  are  seated  at  your  desk,  working  with  such 

zeal  of  labor,  as  your  ambitious  projects  never  could 
command.  It  is  a  letter  to  Margaret  Boyne,  that  so 
tasks  your  love,  and  makes  the  veins  upon  your  fore 
head  swell  with  the  earnestness  of  the  employ. 

"  DEAR  MADGE, — May  I  not  call  you  thus,  if 


230  DREAM-LIFE. 

only  in  memory  of  our  childish  affections ; — and  might 
I  dare  to  hope  that  a  riper  affection  which  your  cha 
racter  has  awakened,  may  permit  me  to  call  you  thus, 
always  ? 

"  If  I  have  not  ventured  to  speak,  dear  Madge,  will 
you  not  believe  that  the  consciousness  of  my  own  ill- 
desert  has  tied  my  tongue  ; — will  you  not,  at  least,  give 
me  credit  for  a  little  remaining  modesty  of  heart  ?  You 
know  rny  life,  and  you  know  my  character — what  a 
sad  jumble  of  errors,  and  of  misfortunes  have  belonged 
to  each.  You  know  the  careless,  and  the  vain  purposes 
which  have  made  me  recreant  to  the  better  nature, 
which  belonged  to  that  sunny  childhood,  when  we 
lived,  and  grew  up — together.  And  will  you  not  be 
lieve  me  when  I  say,  that  your  grace  of  character,  and 
kindness  of  heart,  have  drawn  me  back  from  the  follies 
in  which  I  lived ;  and  quickened  new  desires,  which  I 
thought  to  be  wholly  dead  ?  Can  I  indeed  hope  that 
you  will  overlook  all  that  has  gained  your  secret  re 
proaches  ;  and  confide  in  a  heart,  which  is  made  con 
scious  of  better  things,  by  the  love — you  have  in 
spired  ? 

"  Ah,  Madge,  it  is  not  with  a  vain  show  of  words, 
or  with  any  counterfeit  of  feeling,  that  I  write  now  ;— 
you  know  it  is  not; — you  know  that  my  heart  is 
leaning  toward  you,  with  the  freshness  of  its  noblest 
instincts ; — you  know  that — I  love  you ! 


MANLY    LOVE.  231 

"  Can  I,  dare  I  hope,  that  it  is  not  spoken  in  vain  ? 
I  had  thought  in  my  pride,  never  to  make  such  avowal, 
— never  again  to  sue  for  affection ;  but  your  gentle 
ness,  your  modesty,  your  virtues  of  life  and  heart, 
have  conquered  me.  I  am  sure  you  will  treat  me 
with  the  generosity  of  a  victor. 

"  You  know  my  weaknesses ; — I  would  not  conceal 
from  you  a  single  one, — even  to  win  you.  I  can  offer 
nothing  to  you,  which  will  bear  comparison  in  value, 
with  what  is  yours  to  bestow.  I  can  only  offer  this 
feeble  hand  of  mine — to  guard  you;  and  this  poor 
heart — to  love  you ! 

"Am  I  rash?  Am  I  extravagant,  in  word,  or  in 
hope?  Forgive  it  then,  dear  Madge,  for  the  sake 
of  our  old  childish  affection ;  and  believe  me,  when  I 
say,  that  what  is  here  written, — is  written  honestly,  and 
tearfully.  Adieu." 

It  is  with  no  fervor  of  boyish  passion,  that  you  fold 
this  letter:  it  is  with  the  trembling  hand  of  eager, 
and  earnest  manhood.  They  tell  you  that  man  is 
not  capable  of  love ; — so,  the  September  sun  is  not 
capable  of  warmth.  It  may  not  indeed  be  so  fierce 
as  that  of  July ;  but  it  is  steadier.  It  does  not  force 
great  flaunting  leaves  into  breadth  and  succulence; 
but  it  matures  whole  harvests  of  plenty. 

There  is  a  deep  and  earnest  soul   pervading  the 


232  DREAM-LIFE. 

reply  of  Madge  that  makes  it  sacred;  it  is  full  of 
delicacy,  and  full  of  hope.  Yet  it  is  not  final.  Her 
heart  lies  entrenched  within  the  ramparts  of  Duty 
and  of  Devotion.  It  is  a  citadel  of  strength,  in  the 
middle  of  the  city  of  her  affections.  To  win  the  way 
to  it,  there  must  be  not  only  earnestness  of  love,  but 
earnestness  of  life. 

Weeks  roll  by;  and  other  letters  pass  and  are 
answered, — a  glow  of  warmth  beaming  on  either 
side. 

You  are  again  at  the  home  of  Nelly ;  she  is  very 
joyous ;  she  is  the  confident  of  Madge.  Nelly  feels, 
that  with  all  your  errors,  you  have  enough  inner  good 
ness  of  heart  to  make  Madge  happy ;  and  she  feels — 
doubly — that  Madge  has  such  excess  of  goodness  as 
will  cover  your  heart  with  joy.  Yet  she  tells  you 
very  little.  She  will  give  you  no  full  assurance  of  the 
love  of  Madge ;  she  leaves  that  for  yourself  to  win. 

She  will  even  tease  you  in  her  pleasant  way,  until 
hope  almost  changes  to  despair ;  and  your  brow  grows 
pale  with  the  dread — that  even  now,  your  unworthiness 
may  condemn  you. 

It  is  summer  weather ;  and  you  have  been  walking 
over  the  hills  of  home  with  Madge,  and  Nelly.  Nelly 
has  found  some  excuse  to  leave  you, — glancing  at  you 
most  teazingly,  as  she  hurries  away. 

You  are  left  sitting  with  Madge,  upon  a  bank  tufted 


MANLY   LOVE.  233 

with  blue  violets.  You  have  been  talking  of  the  days 
of  childhood,  and  some  word  has  called  up  the  old 
chain  of  boyish  feeling,  and  joined  it  to  your  new 
hope. 

What  you  would  say,  crowds  too  fast  for  utterance ; 
and  you  abandon  it.  But  you  take  from  your  pocket 
that  little,  broken  bit  of  sixpence, — which  you  have 
found  after  long  search, —  and  without  a  word,  but 
with  a  look  that  tells  your  inmost  thought,  you  lay 
it  in  the  half-opened  hand  of  Madge. 

She  looks  at  you,  with  a  slight  suffusion  of  color, — 
seems  to  hesitate  a  moment, — raises  her  other  hand, 
and  draws  from  her  bosom,  by  a  bit  of  blue  ribbon,  a 
little  locket.  She  touches  a  spring,  and  there  falls 
beside  your  relique, — another,  that  had  once  belonged 
to  it. 

Hope  glows  now  like  the  sun. 

"  And  you  have  worn  this,  Maggie  ?" 


"  Dear  Madge !" 

"  Dear  Clarence !" 

And  you  pass  your  arm  now,  unchecked,  around 

that  yielding,  graceful  figure;  and  fold  her  to  your 
bosom,  with  the  swift,  and  blessed  assurance,  that  your 
fullest,  and  noblest  dream  of  love,  is  won. 


V. 

CHEER    AND    CHILDRUK 

WHAT  a  glow  there  is  to  the  swi!  What 
warmth — yet  it  does  not  oppress  you:  what 
coolness — yet  it  is  not  too  cool.  The  birds  sing 
sweetly  ;  you  catch  yourself  watching  to  see  what  new 
songsters  they  can  be : — they  are  only  the  old  robins 
and  thrushes; — yet  what  a  new  melody  is  in  their 
throats ! 

The  clouds  hang  gorgeous  shapes  upon  the  sky, — 
shapes  they  could  hardly  ever  have  fashioned  before. 
The  grass  was  never  so  green,  the  butter-cups  were 
never  so  plenty;  there  was  never  such  a  life  in  the 
leaves.  It  seems  as  if  the  joyousness  in  you,  gave  a 
throb  to  nature,  that  made  every  green  thing  buoyant. 
Faces  too  are  changed :  men  look  pleasantly :  chil- 


CHEER    AND    CHILDREN.  235 

dren  are  all  charming  children  :  even  babies  look  ten 
der  and  lovable.  The  street  beggar  at  your  door  is 
suddenly  grown  into  a  Belisarius,  and  is  one  of  the 
most  deserving  heroes  of  modern  times.  Your  mind 
is  in  a  continued  ferment ;  you  glide  through  your  toil 
— dashing  out  sparkles  of  passion — like  a  ship  in  the 
sea.  No  difficulty  daunts  you :  there  is  a  kind  of  buoy 
ancy  in  your  soul,  that  rocks  over  danger  or  doubt,  as 
sea-waves  heave  calmly  and  smoothly,  over  sunken 
rocks. 

You  grow  unusually  amiable  and  kind ;  you  are 
earnest  in  your  search  of  friends ;  you  shake  hands 
with  your  office  boy,  as  if  he  were  your  second  cousin. 
You  joke  cheerfully  with  the  stout  washerwoman ;  and 
give  her  a  shilling  over-change,  and  insist  upon  her 
keeping  it ;  and  grow  quite  merry  at  the  recollection 
of  it.  You  tap  your  hackman  on  the  shoulder  very 
familiarly,  and  tell  him  he  is  a  capital  fellow ;  and 
don't  allow  him  to  whip  his  horses,  except  when  driv 
ing  to  the  post-office.  You  even  ask  him  to  take  a 
glass  of  beer  with  you,  upon  some  chilly  evening.  You 
drink  to  the  health  of  his  wife. — He  says  he  has  no 
wife : — whereupon  you  think  him  a  very  miserable 
man ;  and  give  him  a  dollar,  by  way  of  consolation. 

You  think  all  the  editorials  in  the  morning  papers 
are  remarkably  well-written, — whether  upon  your  side, 
or  upon  the  other.  You  think  the  stock-market  has  a 


236  DREAM-LIFE. 

very  cheerful  look, — even  with  Erie — of  which  you  arc 
a  large  holder — down  to  seventy-five.  You  wonder 
why  you  never  admired  Mrs.  Hemans  before,  or  Stod- 
dard,  or  any  of  the  rest. 

You  give  a  pleasant  twirl  to  your  fingers,  as  you 
saunter  along  the  street ;  and  say — but  not  so  loud  as 
to  be  overheard — "  She  is  mine — she  is  mine  !" 

You  wonder  if  Frank  ever  loved  Nelly,  one  half  as 
well  as  you  love  Madge  ? — You  feel  quite  sure  he  never 
did.  You  can  hardly  conceive  how  it  is,  that  Madge 
has  not  been  seized  before  now,  by  scores  of  enamored 
men,  and  borne  off,  like  the  Sabine  women  in  Romish 
history.  You  chuckle  over  your  future,  like  a  boy  who 
has  found  a  guinea,  in  groping  for  sixpences.  You  read 
over  the  marriage  service, — thinking  of  the  time  when 
you  will  take  her  hand,  and  slip  the  ring  upon  her  fin 
ger  ;  and  repeat  after  the  clergyman — '  for  richer — for 
poorer  ;  for  better — for  worse.'  A  great  deal  of 
*  worse '  there  will  be  about  it,  you  think  ! 

Through  all,  your  heart  cleaves  to  that  sweet  image  of 
the  beloved  Madge,  as  light  cleaves  to  day.  The  weeks 
leap  with  a  bound ;  and  the  month  only  grow  long, 
when  you  approach  that  day  which  is  to  make  her  yours. 
There  are  no  flowers  rare  enough  to  make  bouquets  for 
her ;  diamonds  are  too  dim  for  her  to  wear  ;  pearls  are 
tame. 

And  after  marriage,  the  weeks  are  even  shorter 


CHEER    AND    CHILDREN.  237 

than  before  :  you  wonder  why  on  earth  all  the  single  men 
in  the  world,  do  not  rush  tumultuously  to  the  Altar  ;  you 
look  upon  them  all,  as  a  travelled  man  will  look  upon 
some  conceited  Dutch  boor,  who  has  never  been  be 
yond  the  limits  of  his  cabbage-garden.  Married  men, 
on  the  contrary,  you  regard  as  fellow-voyagers ;  and 
look  upon  their  wives — ugly  as  they  may  be — as,  bet 
ter  than  none. 

You  blush  a  little,  at  first  telling  your  butcher  what 
4  your  wife '  would  like ;  you  bargain  with  the  grocer 
for  sugars  and  teas,  and  wonder  if  he  knows  that  you 
are  a  married  man  ?  You  practise  your  new  way  of 
talk  upon  your  office  boy  ; — you  tell  him  that  '  your 
wife'  expects  you  home  to  dinner ;  and  are  astonished 
that  he  does  not  stare  to  hear  you  say  it. 

You  wonder  if  the  people  in  the  omnibus  know, 
that  Madge  and  you  are  just  married ;  and  if  the  driver 
knows,  that  the  shilling  you  hand  to  him,  is  for  '  self 
and  wife?'  You  wonder  if  any  body  was  ever  so 
happy  before,  or  ever  will  be  so  happy  again  ? 

You  enter  your  name  upon  the  hotel  books  as 

1  Clarence and  Lady ';  and  come  back  to  look  at 

it, — wondering  if  any  body  else  has  noticed  it, — and 
thinking  that  it  looks  remarkably  well.  You  cannot 
help  thinking  that  eveiy  third  man  you  meet  in  the 
hall,  wishes  he  possessed  your  wife  ; — nor  do  you  think 
it  very  sinful  in  him,  to  wish  it.  You  fear  it  is  placing 


238  DREAM-LIFE. 

temptation  in  the  way  of  covetous  men,  to  put  Madge's 
little  gaiters  outside  the  chamber  door,  at  night. 

Your  home,  when  it  is  entered,  is  just  what  it  should 
be  : — quiet,  small, — with  everything  she  wishes,  and 
nothing  more  than  she  wishes.  The  sun  strikes  it 
in  the  happiest  possible  way : — the  piano  is  the 
sweetest-toned  in  the  world  — the  library  is  stocked  to 
a  charm ; — and  Madge,  thai  blessed  wife,  is  there, — 
adorning,  and  giving  life  to  it  all.  To  think,  even,  of 
her  possible  death,  is  a  suffering  you  class  with  the 
infernal  tortures  of  the  Inquisition.  You  grow  twain 
of  heart,  and  of  purpose.  Smiles  seem  made  for 
marriage ;  and  you  wonder  how  you  ever  wore  them 
before. 

So,  a  year  and  more  wears  off,  of  mingled  home-life, 
visiting,  and  travel.  A  new  hope  and  joy  lightens 
home  : — there  is  a  child  there. 

What  a  joy  to  be  a  father  !  What  new 

emotions  crowd  the  eye  with  tears,  and  make  the  hand 
tremble  !  What  a  benevolence  radiates  from  you 
toward  the  nurse, — toward  the  physician — toward 
everybody !  What  a  holiness,  and  sanctity  of  love 
grows  upon  your  old  devotion  to  that  wife  of  your 
bosom, — the  mother  of  your  child  ! 

The  excess  of  joy  seems  almost  to  blur  the  stories  of 
happiness  which  attach  to  heaven.  You  are  now 


CHEER    AND    CHILDREN.  239 

joined,  as  you  were  never  joined  before,  to  the  great 
family  of  man.  Your  name  and  blood  will  live  after 
you;  nor  do  you  once  think  (what  father  can?)  but 
that  it  wilMive  honorably  and  well. 

With  what  a  new  air  you  walk  the  streets  !  With 
what  a  triumph,  you  speak  in  you  letter  to  Nelly, — 
of  '  your  family !'  Who,  that  has  not  felt  it,  knows 
what  it  is — to  be  '  a  man  of  family  !' 

How  weak  now,  seem  all  the  imaginations  of  your 
single  life  :  what  bare,  dry  skeletons  of  the  reality,  they 
furnished !  You  pity  the  poor  fellows  who  have  no 
wives  or  children, — from  your  soul :  you  count  their 
smiles,  as  empty  smiles,  put  on  to  cover  the  lack  that  is 
in  them.  There  is  a  free-masonry  among  fathers,  that 
they  know  nothing  of.  You  compassionate  them 
deeply :  you  think  them  worthy  objects  of  some 
charitable  association  :  you  would  cheerfully  buy  tracts 
for  them,  if  they  would  but  read  them, — tracts  on 
marriage  and  children. 

And  then  '  the  boy' such  a  boy  ! 

There  was  a  time,  when  you  thought  all  babies  very 

much  alike  : alike  ?  Is  your  boy  like  anything, 

except  the  wonderful  fellow  that  he  is  ?  Was  there 
ever  a  baby  seen,  or  even  read  of,  like  that  baby  ! 

Look  at  him  : — pick  him  up  in  his  long,  white 

gown :  he  may  have  an  excess  of  colour, — but  such 
a  pretty  colour !  he  is  a  little  polity  about  the  mouth— 


240  DREAM-LIFE. 

but  such  a  mouth !  His  hair  is  a  little  scant,  and 
he  is  rather  wandering  in  the  eye ; — but,  Good 
Heavens, — what  an  eye  ! 

There  was  a  time,  when  you  thought  it  veiy  absurd 
for  fathers  to  talk  about  their  children  ;  but  it  does  net 
seem  at  all  absurd  now.  You  think,  on  the  contrary, 
that  your  old  friends,  who  used  to  sup  with  you  at  the 
club,  would  be  delighted  to  know  how  your  baby  is 
getting  on,  and  how  much  be  measures  around  the  calf 
of  the  leg !  iFthey  pay  you  a  visit,  you  are  quite  sure 
they  are  in  an  agony  to  see  Frank  ;  and  you  hold  the 
little  squirming  fellow  in  your  arms,  half  conscience- 
smitten,  for  provoking  them  to  such  envy,  as  they  must 
be  suffering.  You  make  a  settlement  upon  the  boy 
with  a  chuckle, — as  if  you  were  treating  yourself  to  a 
mint-julep, — instead  of  conveying  away  a  few  thousands 
of  seven  per  cents. 

Then  the  boy  developes,  astonishingly.  What 

a  head — what  a  foot, — what  a  voice  !  And  ho 
is  so  quiet  withal ; — never  known  to  cry,  except 
under  such  provocation  as  would  draw  tears  from 
a  heart  of  adamant ;  in  short,  for  the  first  six 
months,  he  is  never  anything,  but  gentle,  patient, 
earnest,  loving,  intellectual,  and  magnanimous.  You 
are  half  afraid  that  some  of  the  physicians  will  be 
reporting  the  case,  as  one  of  the  most  remarkable 


CHEER    AND    CHILDREN.  241 

instances  of  perfect  moral  and  physical  development,  on 
record. 

But  the  years  roll  on,  in  the  which  your  extravagant 
fancies,  die  into  the  earnest  maturity  of  a  father's  love. 
You  struggle  gaily  with  the  cares  that  life  brings  to 
your  door.  You  feel  the  strength  of  three  beings  in 
your  single  arm ;  and  feel  your  heart  warming  toward 
God  and  man,  with  the  add^d  warmth  of  two  other 
loving,  and  trustful  beings. 

How  eagerly  you  watch  the  first  tottering  step  of 
that  boy  :  how  you  riot  in  the  joy  and  pride,  that  swell 
in  that  mother's  eyes,  as  they  follow  his  feeble,  stagger 
ing  motions !  Can  God  bless  his  creatu-33,  more  than 
he  has  blessed  that  dear  Madge,  and  you  ?  Has  Heaven 
even  richer  joys,  than  live  in  that  homo  of  yours  ? 

By  and  by,  he  speaks ;  and  minds  tie  together  by 
language,  as  the  hearts  have  long  tied  by  looks.  He 
wanders  with  you,  feebly,  and  with  slow,  wondering 
paces,  upon  the  verge  of  the  great  universe  of  thought. 
His  little  eye  sparkles  with  some  vague  fancy  that 
comes  upon  him  first,  by  language.  Madge  teaches 
him  the  words  of  affection,  and  of  thankfulness ;  and 
she  teaches  him  to  lisp  infant  prayer ;  and  by  secret 
pains,  (how  could  she  be  so  secret  ?)  instructs  him 
in  some  little  phrase  of  endearment,  that  she  knows 
will  touch  your  heart ;  and  then,  she  watches  your 
cominor  •  and  the  little  fellow  runs  toward  you,  and 
11 


242  DREAM-LIFE. 

warbles  out  his  lesson  of  love,  in  tones  that  forbid  you 
any  answer, — save  only  those  brimming  eyes, — turned 
first  on  her,  and  then  on  him  ; — and  poorly  concealed, 
by  the  quick  embrace,  and  the  kisses  which  you  shower 
in  transport  ! 

Still  slip  on  the  years,  like  brimming  bowls  of 
nectar.  Another  Madge  is  sister  to  Frank ;  and  a 
little  Nelly,  is  younger  sister  to  this  other  Madge. 

Three    of    them  —  a    charmed,    and    mystic 

number  ; — which  if  it  be  broken  in  these  young 
days, — as,  alas,  it  may  be ! — will  only  yield  a  cherub 
angel,  to  float  over  you,  and  to  lloat  over  them — to 
wean  you,  and  to  wean  them,  from  this  world,  where  all 
joys  do  perish,  to  that  seraph  world,  where  joys  do 
Lust  forever. 


VI. 

A    DREAM    OP    DARKNESS. 

IS  our  life  a  sun,  that  it  should  radiate  light  and 
heat  forever  ?  Do  not  the  calmest,  and  brightest 
days  of  autumn,  show  clouds  that  drift  their  ragged 
edges  over  the  golden  disc ;  and  bear  dov/n  swift,  with 
their  weight  of  vapors,  until  the  whole  sun's  surface  is 
shrouded  ; — and  you  can  see  no  shadow  of  tree,  or 
flower  upon  the  land,  because  of  the  greater,  and 
gulphing  shadow  of  the  cloud  ? 

Will  not  life  bear  me  out ; — will  not  truth,  earnest 
and  stern,  around  me,  make  good  the  terrible  imagi 
nation  that  now  comes  swooping  heavily,  and  darkly, 
upon  my  brain  ? 

You  are  living  in  a  little  village,  not  far  away  from 
the  city.  It  is  a  graceful,  and  luxurious  home  that  you 


244  DREAM -LIFE. 

possess.  The  holly  and  the  laurel  gladden  its  lawn  in 
winter ;  and  bowers  of  blossoms  sweeten  it  through  all 
the  summer.  You  know,  each  day  of  your  return  from 
the  town,  where  first  you  will  catch  sight  of  that 
graceful  figure,  flitting  like  a  shadow  of  love,  beneath 
the  trees :  you  know  well,  where  you  will  meet  the 
joyous,  and  noisy  welcome  of  stout  Frank,  and  of 
tottling  Nelly.  Day  after  day,  and  week  after  week, 
they  fail  not. 

A  friend  sometimes  attends  you ;  and  a  friend  to 
you,  is  always  a  friend  to  Madge.  In  the  city,  you  fall 
in  once  more  with  your  old  acquaintance  Dalton  ; — 
the  graceful,  winning,  yet  dissolute  man  that  his  youth 
promised.  He  wishes  to  see  your  cottage  home. 
Your  heart  half  hesitates  :  yet  it  seems  folly  to  cherish 
distrust  of  a  boon  companion,  in  so  many  of  your 
revels. 

Madge  receives  him  with  that  sweet  smile,  which 
welcomes  all  your  friends.  He  gains  the  heart  of 
Frank,  by  talking  of  his  toys,  and  of  his  pigeons  ;  and 
he  wins  upon  the  tenderness  of  the  mother,  by  his 
attentions  to  the  child.  Even  you,  repent  of  your 
passing  shadow  of  dislike,  and  feel  your  heart  warming 
toward  him,  as  he  takes  little  Nelly  in  his  arms,  and 
provokes  her  joyous  prattle. 

Madge  is  unbounded  in  her  admiration  of  your 
friend  :  he  renews,  at  your  solicitation,  his  visit :  he 


A.   DREAM    OF    DARKNESS.  245 

proves  kinder  than  ever ;  and  you  grow  ashamed  of 
your  distrust. 

Madge  is  not  learned  in  the  arts  of  a  city  life : 
the  accomplishments  of  a  man  of  the  world  are 
almost  new  to  her :  she  listens  with  eagerness  to 
Dalton's  graphic  stories  of  foreign  fetes,  and  luxury  : 
she  is  charmed  with  his  clear,  bold  voice,  and  with  his 
manly  execution  of  little  operatic  airs. 

She  is  beautiful — that  wife  who  has  made  your 

heart  whole,  by  its  division — fearfully  beautiful.  And 
she  is  not  cold,  or  impassive :  her  heart  though  fond, 
and  earnest,  is  yet  human  : — we  are  all  human.  The 
accomplishments  and  graces  of  the  world  must  needs 
take  hold  upon  her  fancy.  And  a  fear  creeps  over  you, 
that  you  dare  not  whisper, — that  those  graces  may 
cast  into  the  shade,  your  own  yearning,  and  silent 
tenderness. 

But  this  is  a  selfish  fear,  that  you  think  you  have  no 
right  to  cherish.  She  takes  pleasure  in  the  society 
of  Dalton, — what  right  have  you,  to  say  her — nay  ? 
His  character  indeed  is  not  altogether  such  as  you  could 
wish  ;  but  will  it  not  be  selfish  to  tell  her  even  this  ? 
Will  it  not  be  even  worse,  and  show  taint  of  a  lurking 
suspicion,  which  you  know  would  wound  her  grievously  ? 
You  struggle  with  your  distrust,  by  meeting  him  more 
kindly  than  ever :  yet,  at  times,  there  will  steal  over 
you  a  sadness, — which  that  dear  Madge  detects,  and 


246  DREAM-LIFE. 

sorrowing  in  her  turn,  tries  to  draw  away  from  you  by 
the  touching  kindness  of  sympathy.  Her  look,  and 
manner  kill  all  your  doubt ;  and  you  show  that  it 
is  gone,  and  piously  conceal  the  cause,  by  welcoming  in 
gayer  tones  than  ever,  the  man  who  has  fostered  it,  by 
his  presence. 

Business  calls  you  away  to  a  great  distance  from 
home :  it  is  the  first  long  parting  of  your  real  man 
hood.  And  can  suspicion,  or  a  fear,  lurk  amid  those 
tearful  embraces  ?  Not  one, thank  God, — not  one  ! 

Your  letters,  frequent  and  earnest,  bespeak  your  in 
creased  devotion ;  and  the  embraces  you  bid  her  give 
to  the  sweet  ones  of  your  little  flock,  tell  of  the  calm 
ness,  and  sufficiency  of  your  love.  Her  letters  too,  are 
running  over  with  affection  : — what  though  she  men 
tions  fhe  frequent  visits  of  Dalton,  and  tells  stories  of 
his  kindness  and  attachment?  You  feel  safe  in  her 
strength :  and  yet — yet  there  is  a  brooding  terror  that 
rises  out  of  your  knowledge  of  Dalton's  character. 

And  can  you  tell  her  this ;  can  you  stab  her  fondness, 
now  that  you  are  away,  with  even  a  hint  of  what  would 
crush  her  delicate  nature  ? 

What  you  kiiow  to  be  love,  and  what  you  fancy  to 
be  duty,  struggle  long :  but  love  conquers.  And  with 
sweet  trust  in  her,  and  double  trust  in  God,  you  await 
your  return.  That  return  will  be  speedier  than  you 
think. 


A    DUE  AM    OF   DARKNESS.          247 

You  receive  one  day  a  letter :  it  is  addressed  in  tho 
hand  of  a  friend,  who  is  often  at  the  cottage,  but  who 
Las  rarely  written  to  you.  What  can  have  tempted 
him  now  ?  Has  any  harm  come  near  your  home  ? 
No  wonder  your  hands  tremble  at  the  opening  of  that 

sheet ; no  wonder  that  your  eyes  run  like  lightning 

over  the  hurried  lines.  Yet  there  is  little  in  them — 
very  little.  The  hand  is  stout  and  fair.  It  is  a  calm 
letter, — a  friendly  letter ;  but  it  is  short — terribly  short. 
It  bids  you  come  home — *  at  once  /* 

And  you  go.  It  is  a  pleasant  country  you  have 

to  travel  through ;  but  you  see  very  little  of  the  country. 
It  is  a  dangerous  voyage  perhaps,  you  have  to  make ; 
but  you  think  very  little  of  the  danger.  The  creaking 
of  the  timbers,  and  the  lashing  of  the  waves,  are  quiet 
ing  music,  compared  with  the  storm  of  your  raging 
fears.  All  the  while,  you  associate  Dalton  with  the 
terror  that  seems  to  hang  over  you;  and  yet, — your 
trust  in  Madge,  is  true  as  Heaven  I 

At  length  you  approach  that  home; — there  lies 
your  cottage  lying  sweetly  upon  its  hill-side ;  and  the 
autumn  winds  are  soft ;  and  the  maple-tops  sway 
gracefully,  all  clothed  in  the  scarlet  of  their  frost-dress. 
Once  again,  as  the  sun  sinks  behind  the  mountain  with 
a  trail  of  glory,  and  the  violet  haze  tints  the  grey 
clouds,  like  so  many  robes  of  angels, — you  take  heart 
and  courage  ;  and  with  firm  reliance  on  the  Providence 


248  DREAM-LIFE. 

that  fashions  all  forms  of  beauty,  whether  in  Heaven 
or  in  heart, — your  fears  spread  out,  and  vanish  with 
the  waning  twilight. 

She  is  not  at  the  cottage  door  to  meet  you ;  she 
does  not  expect  you  ;  and  yet  your  bosom  heaves,  and 
your  breathing  is  quick.  Your  friend  meets  you,  and 

shakes  your  hand. "  Clarence,"  he  says,  with  the 

tenderness  of  an  old  friend, — "  be  a  man !" 

Alas,  you  are  a  man ; — with  a  man's  heart,  and  a 
man's  fear,  and  a  man's  agony !  Little  Frank  comes 
bounding  toward  you  joyously — yet  under  traces  of 
tears  : — "  Oh,  Papa,  Mother  is  gone !" 

"  Gone  !" And  you  turn  to  the  face  of  your 

friend ) — it  is  well  he  is  near  by,  or  you  would  have 
fallen. 

He  can  tell  you  very  little;  he  has  known  the 
character  of  Daltou ;  he  has  seen  with  fear  his  assi 
duous  attentions — tenfold  multiplied  since  your  leave. 
He  has  trembled  for  the  issue  :  this  very  morning  he 
observed  a  travelling  carriage  at  the  door ; — they  drove 
away  together.  You  have  no  strength  to  question  him. 
You  see  that  he  fears  the  worst :— he  does  not  know 
Madge,  so  well  as  you. 

And  can  it  be?  Are  you  indeed  widowed 

with  that  most  terrible  of  widowhoods  ? — Is  your  wife 
living, — and  yet — lost !  Talk  not  to  such  a  man  of 


A    DREAM    OF    DARKNESS.         249 

the  woes  of  sickness,  of  poverty,  of  death ; — he  will 
laugh  at  your  mimicry  of  grief* 

All  is  blackness ;  whichever  way  you  turn,  it  is 

the  same ;  there  is  no  light ;  your  eye  is  put  out ; 
your  soul  is  desolate  forever.  The  heart,  by  which 
you  had  grown  up  into  the  full  stature  of  joy,  and  bless 
ing,  is  rooted  out  of  you,  and  thrown  like  something 
loathsome,  at  which  the  carrion  dogs  of  the  world 
scent,  and  snuffle ! 

They  will  point  at  you,  as  the  man  who  has  lost  all 
that  he  prized  ;  and  she  has  stolen  it,  whom  he  prized 
more  than  what  was  stolen.  And  he,  the  accursed 

miscreant But  no,  it  can  never  be.  Madgo 

is  as  true  as  Heaven ! 

Yet  she  is  not  there :  whence  comes  the  light  that 
is  to  cheer  you  ? 

Your  children  ? 

Aye,  your  children, — your  little  Nelly, — your  noble 
Frank, — they  are  yours ; — doubly,  trebly,  tenfold  yours, 
now  that  she,  their  mother,  is  a  mother  no  more  to 
them,  forever ! 

Aye,  close  your  doors  ;  shut  out  the  world  ; — draw 
close  your  curtains  ; — fold  them  to  your  heart, — your 
crushed,  bleeding,  desolate  heart.  Lay  your  forehead 
to  the  soft  cheek  of  your  noble  boy ; — beware,  beware 
how  you  dampen  that  damask  cheek  with  your  scald- 
Ing  tears  : — yet  you  cannot  help  it ; — they  fall — great 


250  DREAM- LIFE. 

drops, — a  river  of  tears,  as  you  gather  him  convulsively 
to  your  bosom ! 

"  Father,  why  do  you  cry  so  ?"  says  Frank,  with  the 
tears  of  dreadful  sympathy  starting  from  those  eyes  of 
childhood. 

"  Why,  Papa?"— mimes  little  Nelly. 

Answer  them  if  you  da:te !  Try  it ; — what 

words — blundering,  weak  words, — choked  with  agony, 
— leading  no  where, — ending  in  new,  and  convulsive 
clasps  of  your  weeping,  motherless  children. 

Had  she  gone  to  her  grave,  there  would  have  been 
a  holy  joy — a  great,  and  swelling  grief  indeed, — but 
your  poor  heart  would  have  found  a  rest  in  the  quiet 
churchyard ;  and  your  feelings  rooted  in  that  cherished 
grave,  would  have  stretched  up  toward  Heaven  their 
delicate  leaves,  and  caught  the  dews  of  His  grace,  who 
watclieth  the  lilies.  But  noy?, — with  your  heart  cast 
under  foot,  or  buffeted  on  the  lips  of  a  lying  world,— 

finding  no  shelter,  and  no  abiding  place alas,  we 

do  guess  at  infinitude,  only  by  suffering. 

Madge,  Madge !  can  this  be  so  ?  Are  you  not 

still  the  same,  sweet,  guileless  child  of  Heaven  ? 


vn. 

PEACE. 

IT  is  a  dream ; — fearful  to  be  sure, — but  only  a 
dream.  Madge  is  true.  That  soul  is  honest ;  it 
could  not  be  otherwise.  God  never  made  it  to  be 
false ;  He  never  made  the  sun  for  darkness. 

And  before  the  evening  has  waned  to  midnight, 
sweet  day  has  broken  on  your  gloom; — Madge  is 
folded  to  your  bosom ; — sobbing  fearfully : — not  for 
guilt,  or  any  shadow  of  guilt,  but  for  the  agony  she 
reads  upon  your  brow,  and  in  your  low  sighs. 

The  mystery  is  all  cleared  by  a  few  lightning  words 
from  her  indignant  lips ;  and  her  whole  figure  trembles, 
as  she  shrinks  within  your  embrace,  with  the  thought 
of  that  great  evil,  that  seemed  to  shadow  you.  The 
villain  has  sought  by  every  art,  to  beguile  her  into  ap- 


252  DREAM-LIFE. 

pearance  which  should  compromise  her  character,  and 
so  wound  her  delicacy,  as  to  take  away  the  courage  for 
return :  ho  has  even  wrought  upon  her  affection  for 
you,  as  his  master-weapon :  a  skilfully-contrived  story 
of  some  accident  that  had  befallen  you,  had  wrought 
upon  her — to  the  sudden,  and  silent  leave  of  home. 
But  he  has  failed.  At  the  first  suspicion  of  his  falsity, 
her  dignity  and  virtue  shivered  all  his  malice.  Sho 
shudders  at  the  bare  thought  of  that  fiendish  scheme, 
which  has  so  lately  broken  on  her  view. 

"  Oh,  Clarence,  Clarence,  could  you  for  one  moment 
believe  this  of  me  ?" 

"  Dear  Madge,  forgive  me,  if  a  dreamy  horror  did 
for  an  instant  palsy  my  better  thought; — it  is  gone 
utterly  ; — it  will  never — never  come  again !" 

And  there  she  leans,  with  her  head  pillowed  on 
your  shoulder,  the  same  sweet  angel,  that  has  led 
you  in  the  way  of  light ;  and  who  is  still  your  Messing, 
and  your  pride. 

Ho — and  you  forbear  to  name  his  name — is  gone ; — 
ilying  vainly  from  the  consciousness  of  guilt,  with  the 
curse  of  Cain  upon  him, — hastening  toward  the  day, 
when  Satan  shall  clutch  his  own. 

A  heavenly  peace  descends  upon  you  that  night ; — 
all  the  more  sacred  and  calm,  for  the  fearful  agony 
that  has  gone  before.  A  Heaven  that  seemed  lost,  is 
yours.  A  love  that  you  had  almost  doubted,  is  beyond 


PEACE.  253 

all  suspicion.  A  heart  that  in  the  madness  of  your 
frenzy,  you  had  dared  to  question,  you  worship  now, 
with  Washes  of  shame.  You  thank  God,  for  this  great 
goodness,  as  you  never  thanked  him  for  any  earthly 
blessing  before ;  and  with  this  twin  gratitude  lying  on 
your  hearts,  and  clearing  your  face  to  smiles,  you  live 
09  together  the  old  life  of  joy,  and  of  affection. 

Agitin  with  brimming  nectar,  the  years  fill  up  their 
vases.  Your  children  grow  into  the  same  earnest 
joyousness,  and  with  the  same  home  faith,  which 
lightened  upon  your  young  dreams ;  and  toward  which, 
you  seem  to  go  back,  as  you  riot  with  them  in  their 
Christmas  joys,  or  upon  the  velvety  lawn  of  June. 

Anxieties  indeed  overtake  you;  but  they  are  those 
anxieties  which  only  the  selfish  would  avoid — anxieties 
that  better  the  heart,  with  a  great  weight  of  tenderness. 
It  may  be,  that  your  mischievous  Frank  runs  wild 
with  the  swift  blood  of  boyhood,  and  that  the  hours 
are  long,  which  wait  his  coming.  It  may  be  that 
your  heart  echoes  in  silence,  the  mother's  sobs,  as  she 
watches  his  fits  of  waywardness,  and  showers  upon  his 
very  neglect,  excess  of  love. 

Danger  perhaps  creeps  upon  little,  joyous  Nelly, 
which  makes  you  tremble  for  her  life ;  the  mother's 
tears  are  checked  that  she  may  not  deepen  your  grief; 
and  her  care  guards  the  little  sufferer,  like  a  Provi- 


254  DREAM-LIFE. 

dence.  The  nights  hang  long  and  heavy ;  dull,  stifled 
breathing  wakes  the  chamber  with  ominous  sound ; 
the  mother's  eye  scarce  closes,  but  rests  with  fond 
sadness  upon  the  little  struggling  victim  of  sickness ; 
her  hand  rests  like  an  angel  touch  upon  the  brow, 
all  beaded  with  the  heats  of  fever ;  the  straggling, 
gray  light  of  morning  breaks  through  the  crevices 
of  the  closed  blinds, — bringing  stir,  and  bustle  to  the 
world,  but,  in  your  home, — lighting  only  the  dark 
ness. 

Hope  sinking  in  the  mother's  heart,  takes  hold  on 
Faith  in  God ;  and  her  prayer,  and  her  placid  look 
of  submission, — more  than  all  your  philosophy, — add 
strength  to  your  faltering  courage. 

But  little  Nelly  brightens;  her  faded  features  take 
on  bloom  again;  she  knows  you;  she  presses  your 
hand;  she  draws  down  your  cheek  to  her  parched 
lip ;  she  kisses  you,  and  smiles.  The  mother's  brow 
loses  its  shadow ;  day  dawns  within,  as  well  as  without; 
and  on  bended  knees,  God  is  thanked  ! 

Perhaps  poverty  faces  you; — your  darling  schemes 
break  down.  One  by  one,  .vith  failing  heart,  you 
strip  the  luxuries  from  life.  But  the  sorrow  which 
oppresses  you,  is  not  the  selfish  sorrow  which  the 
lone  man  feels  ;  it  is  far  nobler ;  its  chiefest  mourning 
is  over  the  despoiled  home.  Frank  must  give  up  his 
promised  travel ;  Madge  must  lose  her  favorite  pony; 


PEACE.  255 

Nelly  must  be  denied  her  little  fete  upon  the  lawn. 
The  home  itself,  endeared  by  so  many  scenes  of 
happiness,  and  by  so  many  of  suffering — must  be 
given  up.  It  is  hard — very  hard  to  tear  away  your 
wife,  from  the  flowers,  the  birds,  the  luxuries,  that  she 
has  made  so  dear. 

Now,  she  is  far  stronger  than  you.  She  contrives 
new  joys;  she  wears  a  holy  calm;  she  cheers  by 
a  new  hopefulness ;  she  buries  even  the  memory  of 
luxury,  in  the  riches  of  the  humble  home,  that  her 
wealth  of  heart  endows.  Her  soul,  catching  radiance 
from  that  Heavenly  world,  where  her  hope  lives, 
kindles  amid  the  growing  shadows,  and  sheds  bairn 
upon  the  little  griefs, — 'like  the  serene  moon,  slanting 
the  dead  sun's  life,  upon  the  night. 

Courage  wakes  in  the  presence  of  those  dependent 
on  your  toil.  Love  arms  your  hand,  and  quickens 
your  brain.  Resolutions  break  large  from  the  swelling 
soul.  Energy  leaps  into  your  action,  like  light.  Grad 
ually  you  bring  back  into  your  humble  home,  a 
few  traces  of  the  luxury  that  once  adorned  it.  That 
wife  whom  it  is  your  greatest  pleasure  to  win  to 
smiles, — wears  a  half  sad  look,  as  she  meets  these 
proofs  of  love ;  she  fears  that  you  are  perilling  too 
much,  for  her  pleasure. 

For  the  first  time  in  life  you  deceive  her.  You 

have  won  wealth  again  ;  you  now  step  firmly  upon  your 


256  DREAM-LIFE. 

new-gained  sandals  of  gold.  But  you  conceal  it  from 
her.  You  contrive  a  little  scheme  of  surprise,  with 
Frank  alone,  in  the  secret. 

You  purchase  again  the  old  home ;  you  stock  it,  as 
far  as  may  be,  with  the  old  luxuries ;  a  now  harp  is  in 
the  place  of  that  one  which  beguiled  so  many  hours  of 
joy  ;  new  and  cherished  flowers  bloom  again  upon  the 
window ;  her  birds  hang,  and  warble  their  melody,  where 
they  warbled  it  before.  A  pony — like  as  possible  to 
the  old — is  there  for  Madge ;  a  fete  is  secretly  con 
trived  upon  the  lawn.  You  even  place  the  old,  familiar 
books,  upon  the  parlor  table. 

The  birth-day  of  your  own  Madge,  is  approaching : 
— a  fete  you  never  pass  by,  without  home-rejoicings. 
You  drive  over  with  her,  upon  that  morning,  for  ano 
ther  look  at  the  old  place ;  a  cloud  touches  her  brow, — 
but  she  yields  to  your  wish.  An  old  servant, — whom 
you  had  known  in  better  days — throws  open  the  gates, 

"It  is  too — too  sad,"  says  Madge — "let  us  go 

back,  Clarence,  to  our  own  home; — we  are  happy 
there." 

"  A  little  farther,  Madge." 

The  wife  steps  slowly  over  what  seems  the  sepulchre 
of  so  many  pleasures ;  the  children  gambol  as  of  old, 
and  pick  flowers.  But  the  mother  checks  them. 

"  They  are  not  ours  now,  my  children  !" 

You  stroll  to  the  very  door;  the   goldfinches  are 


PEACE.  257 

hanging  upon  the  wall ;  the  rnignionette  is  in  the  win 
dow.  You  feel  the  hand  of  Madge  trembling  upon 
your  arm  ;  she  is  struggling  with  her  weakness. 

A  tidy  waiting  woman  shows  you  into  the  old  par 
lor  : there  is  a  harp ;  and  there  too,  such  books  as 

we  loved  to  read. 

Madge  is  overcome  ;  now,  she  entreats  : — "  Let  us 
go  away,  Clarence !"  and  she  hides  her  face. 

"  Never,  dear  Madge,  never !  it  is  yours — all 

yours !" 

She  looks  up  in  your  face ;  she  sees  your  look  of 
triumph  ;  she  catches^  sight  of  Frank  bursting  in  at  the 
old  hall-door,  all  radiant  with  joy. 

"  Frank !— Clarence  !" — the  tears  forbid  any 

more. 

"  God  bless  you,  Madge !     God  bless  you  !" 

And  thus,  in  peace  and  in  joy,  MANHOOD  passes  on 
into  the  third  season  of  our  life — even  as  golden 
AUTUMN,  sinks  slowly  into  the  tomb  of  WINTER. 


iDintcr ; 

©r 

®l)e  Dreams  of 


DEEAMS    OF    AGE. 


WINTER. 

SLOWLY,  thickly,  fastly,  fall  the  snow  flakes,— like 
the  seasons  upon  the  life  of  man.  At  the  first, 
they  lose  themselves  in  the  brown  mat  of  herbage,  or 
gentry  melt,  as  they  fall  upon  the  broad  stepping  stone 
at  the  door.  But  as  hour  after  hour  passes,  the 
feathery  flakes  stretch  their  white  cloak  plainly  on  the 
meadow,  and  chilling  the  doorstep  with  their  multitude, 
cover  it  with  a  mat  of  pearl. 

The  dried  grass  tips  pierce  the  mantle  of  white,  like 
BO  many  serried  spears ;  but  as  the  storm  goes  softly 
on,  they  sink  one  by  one  to  their  snowy  tomb ;  and 
presently  show  nothing  of  all  their  army,  save  one  or 
two  straggling  banners  of  blackened  and  shrunken 
daisies. 


262  DREAM-LIFE. 

Across  the  wide  meadow  that  stretches  from  my 
window,  I  can  see  nothing  of  those  hills  which  were  so 
green  in  summer :  between  me  and  them,  lie  only  the 
soft,  slow  moving  masses,  filling  the  air  with  whiteness. 
I  catch  only  a  glimpse  of  one  gaunt,  and  bare-armed 
oak,  looming  through  the  feathery  multitude,  like  a  tall 
ship's  spars  breaking  through  fog. 

The  roof  of  the  barn  is  covered ;  and  the  leaking 
eaves  show  dark  stains  of  water,  that  trickle  down  the 
weather-beaten  boards.  The  pear-trees  that  wore  such 
weight  of  greenness  in  the  leafy  June,  now  stretch  their 
bare  arms  to  the  snowy  blast,  and  carry  upon  each  tiny 
bough,  a  narrow  burden  of  winter. 

The  old  house  dog  marches  stately  through  the 
strange  covering  of  earth,  and  seems  to  ponder  on  the 
welcome  he  will  show, — and  shakes  the  flakes  from  his 
long  ears,  and  with  a  vain  snap  at  a  floating  feather,  he 
stalks  again  to  his  dry  covert  in  the  shed.  The  lambs 
that  belonged  to  the  meadow  flock,  with  their  feeding 
ground  all  covered,  seem  to  wonder  at  their  losses ;  but 
take  courage  from  the  quiet  air  of  the  veteran  sheep, 
and  gambol  after  them,  as  they  move  sedately  toward 
the  shelter  of  the  barn. 

The  cat,  driven  from  the  kitchen  door,  beats  a  coy 
retreat,  with  long  reaches  of  her  foot,  upon  the  yielding 
surface.  The  matronly  hens  saunter  out,  at  a  little 
lifting  of  the  storm  ;  and  eye  curiously,  with  heads 


WINTER.  2C3 

half  turned,  their  sinking  steps ;  and  then  fall  back  with 
a  quiet  cluck  of  satisfaction,  to  the  wholesome  gravel  by 
the  stable  door. 

By  and  by,  the  snow  flakes  pile  more  leisurely :  they 
grow  large  and  scattered,  and  come  more  slowly  than 
before.  The  hills  that  were  brown,  heave  into  sight — 
great,  rounded  billows  of  white.  The  gray  woods 
look  shrunken  to  half  their  height,  and  stand  wading 
in  the  storm.  The  wind  freshens,  and  scatters  the 
light  flakes  that  crown  the  burden  of  the  snow ;  and 
as  the  day  droops,  a  clear,  bright  sky  of  steel  color, 
cleaves  the  land,  and  clouds,  and  sends  down  a  chilling 
wind  to  bank  the  walls,  and  to  freeze  the  storm.  The 
moon  rises  full  and  round,  and  plays  with  a  joyous 
chill,  over  the  glistening  raiment  of  the  land. 

I  pile  my  fire  with  the  clean  cleft  hickory  ;  and  mus 
ing  over  some  sweet  stoiy  of  the  olden  time,  I  wander 
into  a  rich  realm  of  thought,  until  my  eyes  grow  dim, 
and  dreaming  of  battle  and  of  prince,  I  fall  to  sleep  in 
my  old  farm  chamber. 

At  morning,  I  find  my  dreams  all  written  on  the 
window,  in  crystals  of  fairy  shape.  The  cattle,  one  by 
one,  with  ears  frost-tipped,  and  with  frosted  noses,  wend 
their  way  to  the  watering-place  in  the  meadow.  One 
by  one  they  drink,  and  crop  at  the  stunted  herbage, 
which  the  warm  spring  keeps  green  and  bare. 

A  hound  bays  in  the  distance ;  the  sinoke  of  cot- 


264  DREAM- LIFE, 

tages  rises  straight  toward  Heaven ;  a  lazy  jingle  of 
sleigh-bells,  wakens  the  quiet  of  the  high-road;  and 
upon  the  hills,  the  leafless  woods  stand  low,  like 
crouching  armies,  with  guns  and  spears  in  rest ;  iind 
among  them,  the  scattered  spiral  pines  rise  like  banner- 
men,  uttering  with  their  thousand  tongues  of  gr<;en, 
the  proud  war-cry — '  God  is  with  us  !' 

But,  the  sky  of  winter  is  as  capricious  as  the  sky  of 
spring — even  as  the  old  wander  in  thought,  like  the 
vagaries  of  a  boy. 

Before  noon,  the  heavens  are  mantled  with  a  leaden 
gray ;  the  eaves  that  leaked  in  the  glow  of  the  sun, 
now  tell  their  tale  of  morning's  warmth,  in  crystal 
ranks  of  icicles.  The  cattle  seek  their  shelter ;  the 
few,  lingering  leaves  of  the  white  oaks,  rustle  dismally ; 
the  pines  breathe  sighs  of  mourning.  As  the  night 
darkens,  and  deepens  the  storm,  the  house  dog  bays  ; 
the  children  crouch  in  the  wide  chimney  corners  ;  the 
sleety  rain  comes  in  sharp  gusts.  And,  as  T  sit  by  the 
light  leaping  blaze  in  my  chamber,  the  scattered  hail- 
drops  beat  upon  my  window,  like  the  tappings  of  an 
OLD  MAN'S  cane. 


I. 

WHAT    is    GONE. 

GONE  !  Did  it  ever  strike  you,  my  reader,  how  much 
meaning  lies  in  that  little  monosyllable — gone  ? 
Say  it  to  yourself  at  nightfall,  when  the  sun  has 
sunk  under  the  hills,  and  the  crickets  chirp — 'gone.' 
Say  it  to  yourself,  when  the  night  is  far  over,  and  you 
wake  with  some  sudden  start,  from  pleasant  dreams, — 

*  gone.'     Say  it  to  yourself  in  some  country  church 
yard,  where  your  father,  or  your  mother,  sleeps  under 
the   blooming    violets  of  spring — '  gone.'     Say  it,  in 
your  sobbing  prayer  to  Heaven,  as  you  cling  lovingly, 
but  oh,  how  vainly,  to  the  hand  of  your  sweet  wife — 

*  gone  1' 

Aye,  is  there  not  meaning  in  it  ?     And  now,  what  is 
gone  •    -or  rather,  what  is  not  gone  ?     Childhood  is 
12 


266  DREAM  LIFE. 

gone  with  all  its  blushes,  and  fairness, — with  all  its 
health  and  wanton, — with  all  its  smiles,  like  glimp&es 
of  heaven ;  and  all  its  tears,  which  were  but  the  suffu 
sion  of  joy. 

Youth  is  gone ; — bright,  hopeful  youth,  when  you 
counted  the  years  with  jewelled  numbers,  and  hung 
lamps  of  ambition  at  your  path,  which  lighted  the 
palace  of  renown; — when  the  days  were  woven  into 
weeks  of  blithe  labor,  and  the  weeks  were  rolled  into 
harvest  months  of  triumph,  and  the  months  were 
bound  into  golden  sheaves  of  years — all,  gone ! 

The  strength  and  pride  of  manhood  is  gone ;  your 
heart  and  soul  have  stamped  their  deepest  dye ;  the 
time  of  power  is  past;  your  manliness  has  told  its 

tale  ;  henceforth  your  career  is  down  ; hitherto, 

you  have  journeyed  up.  You  look  back  upon  a 
decade,  as  you  once  looked  upon  a  half  score  of 
months ;  a  year  has  become  to  your  slackened  memory, 
and  to  your  dull  perceptions,  like  a  week  of  childhood. 
Suddenly  arid  swiftly,  come  past  you,  great  whirls  of 
gone-by  thought,  and  wrecks  of  vain  labor,  eddying 
upon  the  stream  that  rushes  to  the  grave.  The  sweep 
ing  outlines  of  life,  that  lay  once  before  the  vision- 
rolling  into  wide  billows  of  years,  like  easy  lifts  of  a 
broad  mountain-range, — now  seem  close-packed  to 
gether,  as  with  a  Titan  hand  ;  and  you  see  only 


WHAT    is    GONE.  267 

crowded,  craggy  heights, — like  Alpine  fastnesses — parted 
with  glaciers  of  grief,  and  leaking  abundant  tears. 

Your  friends  are  gone ', — they  who  counselled  and 
advised  you,  and  who  protected  your  weakness,  will 
guard  it  no  more  forever.  One  by  one,  they  have 
dropped  away  as  you  have  journeyed  on ;  and  yet  your 
journey  does  not  seem  a  long  one.  Life,  at  the  longest, 
is  but  a  bubble  that  bursts,  so  soon  as  it  is  rounded. 

Nelly,  your  sweet  sister,  to  whom  your  heart  clung 
so  fondly  in  the  young  days,  and  to  whom  it  has  clung 
ever  since,  in  the  strongest  bonds  of  companionship, — 
is  gone, — with  the  rest. 

Your  thought, — wayward  now,  and  flickering, — runs 
over  the  old  days  with  quick,  and  fevered  step ;  it 
brings  back,  faintly  as  it  may,  the  noisy  joys,  and  the 
safety,  that  belonged  to  the  old  garret  roof ;  it  figures 
again  the  image  of  that  calm-faced  futher, — long  since 
sleeping  beside  your  mother ;  it  rests  like  a  shadow, 
upon  the  night  when  Charlie  died ;  it  grasps  the  old 
figures  of  the  school-room,  and  kindles  again  (how 
strange  is  memory),  the  fire  that  shed  its  lustre  upon 
the  curtains,  and  the  ceiling,  as  you  lay  groaning  with 
your  first  hours  of  sickness. 

Your  flitting  recollection  brings  back  with  gushes  of 
exultation,  the  figure  of  that  little,  blue-eyed  hoyden, — 
Madge, — as  she  came  with  her  work,  to  pass  the  long 
evenings  with  Nelly ;  it  calls  again  the  shy  glances  that 


268  DREAM-LIFE. 

you  cast  upon  her,  and  your  naive  ignorance  of  all  the 
little  counter-play,  that  might  well  have  passed  between 
Frank  and  Nelly.  Your  mother's  form  too,  clear  and 
distinct,  comes  upon  the  wave  of  your  rocking  thought ; 
her  smile  touches  you  now  in  age,  as  it  never  touched 
you  in  boyhood. 

The  image  of  that  fair  Miss  Dalton,  who  led  your 
fancy  into  such  mad  captivity,  glides  across  your  vision 
like  the  fragment  of  a  crazy  dream — long  gone  by. 
The  country-home,  where  lived  the  grandfather  of 
Frank,  gleams  kindly  in  the  sunlight  of  your  memory ; 
and  still, — poor,  blind  Fanny, — long  since  gathered  to 
that  rest,  where  her  closed  eyes  will  open  upon  visions 
of  joy, — draws  forth  a  sigh  of  pity. 

Then,  comes  up  that  sweetest,  and  brightest  vision 
of  love,  and  the  doubt  and  care  which  ran  before  it, — 
when  your  hope  groped  eagerly  through  your  pride, 
and  worldliness,  toward  the  sainted  purity  of  her, 
whom  you  know  to  be — all  too  good  ; — when  you 
trembled  at  the  thought  of  your  own  vices,  and  black- 
nesr>,  in  the  presence  of  her,  who  seemed — virtue's  self. 
And  even  now,  your  old  heart  bounds  with  joy,  as  you 
recal  the  first  timid  assurance, — that  vou  were  blessed 
in  the  possession  of  her  love,  and  that  you  might  live 
in  her  smiles. 

Your  thought  runs  like  floating  melody,  over  the  calm 
joy  that  followed  you  through  so  many  years — to  the 


WHAT    is    GONE.  269 

prattling  children,  who  were  there  to  bless  your  path 
How  poor,  seem  now  your  transports,  as  you  met  their 
childish  embraces,  and  mingled  in  their  childish  em 
ploy  ; — how  utterly  weak,  the  actual,  when  compared 
with  that  glow  of  affection,  which  memory  lends  to  the 
scene ! 

Yet  all  this  is  gone;  and  the  anxieties  are  gone, 
which  knit  your  heart  so  strongly  to  those  children, 
and  to  her — the  mother  ;-  -anxieties  which  distressed 
you, — which  you  would  eagerly  have  shunned ;  yet, 
whose  memory  you  would  not  now  bargain  away,  for  a 
king's  ransom.  What  wjre  the  sunlight  worth,  if 
clouds  did  not  sometimes  hide  its  brightness ;  what 
were  the  spring,  or  the  summer,  if  the  lessons  of  the 
chilling  winter  did  not  teach  us  the  stoiy  of  their 
warmth  ? 

The  days  are  gone  too,  in  which  you  may  have 
lingered  under  the  sweet  suns  OL  Italy, — with  the 
cherished  one  beside  you,  and  the  eager  children,  learn 
ing  new  prattle,  in  the  soft  language  of  those  Eastern 
lands.  The  evenings  are  gone,  in  which  you  loitered 
under  the  trees,  with  those  dear  c  es,  under  the  light 
of  a  harvest  moon,  and  talked  of  your  blooming  hopes, 
and  of  the  stirring  plans  of  your  manhood.  There  are 
no  more  amb'tious  hopes — no  more  sturdy  plans  ! 
Life's  work  has  -ounded  into  the  evening  that  shortens 
labor. 


270  DREAM -LiFE. 

And  as  you  loiter  in  dreams  over  the  wide  waste  of 
wh?'u  is  gone, — a  mingled  array  of  griefs  and  of  joys — 
of  failures,  and  of  triumphs, — you  bless  God,  that  there 
has  been  so  much  of  joy,  belonging  to  your  shattered 
life ;  and  you  pray  God,  with  the  vain  fondness  that 
belongs  to  a  parent's  heart, — that  more  of  joy,  and  less 
of  toil,  may  come  near  to  the  cherished  ones,  who  bear 
up  your  hope  and  name. 

And  with  your  silent  prayer,  come  back  the  old 
teachings,  and  vagaries  of  the  boyish  heart,  in  its 
reaches  toward  Heaven.  You  recal  the  old  church- 
reckoning  of  your  goodness :  is  there  much  more  of  it 
now,  than  then  ?  Is  not  Heaven  just  as  high,  and  the 
world  as  sadly — broad  ? 

Alas,  for  the  poor  tale  of  goodness,  which  age  brings 
to  the  memory !  There  may  be  crowning  acts  of 
benevolence,  shining  here  and  there ;  but  the  margin 
of  what  has  not  been  done,  is  very  broad.  How  weak 
and  insignificant,  seems  the  story  of  life's  gcodness,  and 
profit,  when  Death  begins  to  slant  his  shadow  upon  our 
souls !  How  infinite,  in  the  comparison,  seems  that 
Eternal  goodness,  which  is  crowned  with  mercy.  How 
self  vanishes,  like  a  blasted  thing ;  and  only  lives — 
if  it  lives  at  all, — in  the  glow  of  that  redeeming  light, 
which  radiates  from  the  CROSS,  and  the  THRONE. 


> 


n. 

WHAT   is   LEFT. 

BUT  much  as  there  is  gone  of  life,  and  of  its 
joys, — very  much  remains; — very  much  in 
earnest,  and  very  much  more  in  hope.  Still,  you  see 
visions,  and  you  dream  dreams,  of  the  times  that  are 
to  come. 

Your  home,  and  heart  are  left ;  within  that  home, 
the  old  Bible  holds  its  wonted  place,  which  was  the 
monitor  of  your  boyhood ;  and  now,  more  than  ever, 
it  prompts  those  reverent  reaches  of  the  spirit,  which 
go  beyond  even  the  track  of  dreams. 

That  cherished  Madge,  the  partner  of  your  life  and 
joy,  still  lingers,  though  her  step  is  feeble,  and  her  eyes 
are  dimmed; — not,  as  once,  attracting  you  by  any 
outward  show  of  beauty ;  your  heart  glowing  through 


272  D  RE  AM-LlFE 

the  memory  of  a  life  of  joy,  needs  no  such  stimulant 
to  the  affections.  Your  hearts  are  knit  together  by  a 
habit  of  growth,  and  a  unanimity  of  desire.  There 
is  less  to  remind  of  the  vanities  of  earth,  and  more  to 
quicken  the  hopes  of  a  time,  when  body  yields  to 
spirit. 

Your  own  poor,  battered  hulk,  wants  no  jaunty- 
trimmed  craft  for  consort ;  but  twin  of  heart,  and  soul, 
as  you  are  twin  of  years,  you  float  tranquilly  toward 
that  haven,  which  lies  before  us  all. 

Your  children,  now  almost  verging  on  maturity, 
bless  your  hearth,  and  home.  Not  one  is  .gone. 
Frank  indeed,  that  wild  fellow  of  a  youth,  who  has 
wrought  your  heart  into  perplexing  anxieties  again  and 
again,  as  you  have  seen  the  wayward  dashes  of  his 
young  blood, — is  often  away.  But  his  heart  yet 
centres,  where  yours  centres ;  and  his  absence .  is  only 
a  nearer,  and  bolder  strife,  with  that  fierce  world, 
whose  circumstances,  every  man  of  force,  and  energy, 
is  born  to  conquer. 

His  return,  from  time  to  time,  with  that  proud 
figure  of  opening  manliness,  and  that  full  flush  of  health, 
speaks  to  your  affections,  as  you  could  never  have 
believed  it  would.  It  is  not  for  a  man,  who  is  the 
fath  »r  of  a  man,  to  show  any  weakness  of  the  heart, 
or  any  over-sensitiveness,  in  those  ties  which  bind  him 
to  his  kin.  And  yet — yet,  as  you  sit  by  ^Diir  fire-side 


WHAT    is    LEFT.  273 

with  your  clear,  gray  eye,  feasting  in  its  feebleness  on 
that  proud  figure  of  a  man, — who  calls  you — '  father,' 
— and  as  you  see  his  fond,  and  loving  attentions  to 
that  one,  who  has  been  your  partner  in  all  anxieties, 
and  joys, — there  is  a  throbbing  within  your  bosom 
that  makes  you  almost  wish  him  young  again: — 
that  you  might  embrace  him  now,  as  when  he  warbled 

in  your  rejoicing  ear,  those  first  words  of  love. Ah, 

how  little  does  a  son  know  the  secret  and  craving 
tenderness  of  a  parent ; — how  little  conception  has  he, 
of  those  silent  bursts  of  fondness,  and  of  joy,  which 
attend  his  coming,  and  which  crown  his  parting ! 

There  is  young  Madge  too, — dark-eyed,  tall,  with  a 
pensive  shadow  resting  on  her  face, — the  very  image 
of  refinement,  and  of  delicacy.  She  is  thoughtful; 
— not  breaking  out,  like  the  hoyden,  flax-haired  Nelly, 
into  bursts  of  joy,  and  singing, — but  stealing  upon 
your  heart,  with  a  gentle  and  quiet  tenderness,  that 
diffuses  itself  throughout  the  household,  like  a  soft 
zephyr  of  summer. 

There  are  friends  too  yet  left,  who  come  in  upon 
your  evening  hours ;  and  light  up  the  loitering  time 
with  dreamy  story  of  the  years  that  are  gone.  How 
eagerly  you  listen  to  some  gossipping  veteran  friend, 
who  with  his  deft  words,  calls  up  the  thread  of  some 
bye-gone  years  of  life ;  and  with  what  a  careless,  yet 
grateful  recognition,  you  lapse,  as  it  were,  into  the 
12* 


274  DREAJI-LIFE. 

current  of  the  past;  and  live  over  again,  by  /our 
hospitable  blaze,  the  stir,  the  joy,  and  the  pride  of  your 
lost  manhood. 

The  children  of  friends  too,  have  grown  upon  your 
march ;  and  come  to  welcome  you  with  that  reverent 
deference,  which  always  touches  the  heart  of  age. 
That  wild  boy  Will., — the  son  of  a  dear  friend  — who 
but  a  little  while  ago,  was  worrying  you  with  his 
boyish  pranks,  has  now  shot  up  into  tall,  and  graceful 
youth;  and  evening  after  evening,  finds  him  making 
part  of  your  little  household  group. 

Does  the  fond  old  man  think  that  he  is  all  the 

attraction ! 

It  may  be  that  in  your  dreamy  speculations,  about 
the  future  of  your  children  (for  still  you  dream)  you 
think  that  WilL,  may  possibly  become  the  husband 
of  the  sedate  and  kindly  Madge.  It  worries  you  to 
find  Xelly  teasing  him  as  she  does ;  that  mad  hoyden 
will  never  be  quiet;  she  provokes  you  excessively; 
— and  yet,  she  is  a  dear  creature ;  there  is  no  meeting 
those  laughing  blue  eyes  of  hers,  without  a  smile,  and 
an  embrace. 

It  pleases  you  however  to  see  the  winning  frankness, 
with  which  Madge  always  receives  Will.  And  with  a 
little  of  your  old  vanity  of  observation,  you  trace  out 
the  growth  of  their  dawning  attachment.  It  provokes 
you,  to  find  Nelly  breaking  up  their  quiet  ttte~a-tefes 


WHAT    is    LEFT.  275 

with  her  provoking  sallies;  and  drawing  away  Will. 
to  some  saunter  in  the  garden,  or  to  some  mad  gallop 
over  the  hills. 

At  length,  upon  a  certain  summer's  day,  Will,  asks 
to  see  you.  He  approaches  with  a  doubtful,  and  dis 
turbed  look  ;  you  fear  that  wild  Nell  has  been  teasing 
him  with  her  pranks.  Yet  he  wears,  not  so  much  an 
offended  look,  as  one  of  fear.  You  wonder  if  it  ever 
happened  to  you,  to  carry  your  hat  in  just  that  timid 
manner,  and  to  wear  such  a  shifting  expression  of  the 
eye,  as  poor  Will,  wears  just  now  ?  You  wonder  if  it 
ever  happened  to  you,  to  begin  to  talk  with  an  old 
friend  of  your  father's,  in  just  that  abashed  way  ?  Will. 

must  have  fallen  into  some  sad  scrape. "Well,  he  is 

a  good  fellow,  and  you  will  help  him  out  of  it. 

You  look  up  as  he  goes  on  with  his  story ; — you 
grow  perplexed  yourself; — you  scarce  believe  your  own 
ears. 

"  Nelly  ?"— Is  Will,  talking  of  Nelly  ? 

«  Yes,  sir —Nelly." 

"  What !— and  you  have  told  all  this  to  Nelly 

—that  you  love  her  ?" 

"  I  have,  sir." 

"  And  she  says " 

"  That  I  must  speak  with  you,  sir." 

"  Bless  my  soul ! — But  she's  a  good  girl ;" — and  the 
old  man  wipes  his  eyes. 


276  DREAM-LIFE. 

"  Nell !— are  you  there  ?" 

And  she  comes, — blushing,  lingering,  yet  smiling 
through  it  all. 

"  And  you  could  deceive  your  old  father,  Nell 

"  (very  fondly.) 

Nelly  only  clasps  your  hand  in  both  of  hers. 

"  And  so  you  loved  Will.,  all  the  while  ?" 

Nelly  only  stoops,  to  drop  a  little  kiss  of  plead 
ing  on  your  forehead. 

"Well,  Nelly"  (it  is  hard  to  speak  roundly), 

"  give  me  your  hand  ; — here  Will., — take  it : — she's  a 
wild  girl ;— be  kind  to  her,  Will.  ?" 

"  God  bless  you,  sir  !" 

And  Nelly  throws  herself,  sobbing,  upon  your  bosom. 

"  Not  here, — not  here,  now,  Nell ! — Will,  is 

yonder !" 

Sobbing,  sobbing  still.  Nelly,  Nelly, — who 

would  have  thought  that  your  merry  face,  covered  such 
heart  of  tenderness ! 


in. 

GRIEF    AND    JOY    OF    AGE. 

THE  winter  lias  its  piercing  storms, — even  as 
Autumn  hath.  Hoary  age,  crowned  with  hctior, 
and  with  years,  bears  no  immunity  from  suffering.  It 
is  the  common  heritage  of  us  all :  if  it  come  not  in  the 
spring,  or  in  the  summer  of  our  day,  it  will  surely  find 
us  in  the  autumn,  or  amid  the  frosts  of  winter.  It  is 
the  penalty  humanity  pays  for  pleasure ;  human  joys 
will  have  their  balance.  Nature  never  makes  false 
weight.  The  east  wind  is  followed  by  a  wind  from  the 
west ;  and  every  smile,  will  have  its  equivalent — in  a 
tear. 

You  have  lived  long,  and  joyously,  with  that  dear 
one,  who  has  made  your  life — a  holy  pilgrimage.  She 
has  seemed  to  lead  you  into  ways  of  pleasantness,  and 


278  DREAM-LIFE. 

has  kindled  in  you — as  the  damps  oi  the  world  came 
near  to  extinguish  them, — those  hopes  and  aspirations, 
•which  rest  not  in  life,  but  soar  to  the  rt  aim  of  spirits. 

You  have  sometimes  shuddered  with  the  thought  of 
parting ;  you  have  trembled  even  at  the  leave-taking 
of  a  year,  or — of  months ;  and  have  suffered  bitterly, 
as  some  danger  threatened  a  parting — forever.  That 
danger  threatens  now.  Nor  is  it  a  sudden  fear,  to 
startle  you  into  a  paroxysm  of  dread — nothing  of  this. 
Nature  is  kinder, — or,  she  is  less  kind. 

It  is  a  slow,  and  certain  approach  of  danger,  which 
you  read  in  the  feeble  step, — in  the  wan  eye,  lighting 
up  from  time  to  time,  into  a  brightness  that  seems  no 
longer  of  this  world.  You  read  it  in  the  new,  and 
ceaseless  attentions  of  the  fond  child  who  yet  blesses 
your  home ;  and  who  conceals  from  you  the  bitterness 
of  the  coming  grief. 

Frank  is  away — over  seas  ;  and  as  the  mother  men 
tions  that  name  with  a  tremor  of  love,  and  of  regret, 
that  he  is  not  now  with  you  all, — you  recal  that  other 
death,  when  you  too, — were  not  there.  Then  you 
knew  little  of  a  parent's  feeling ; — now,  its  intensity  is 
present ! 

Day  after  day,  as  summer  passes,  she  is  ripening  for 
that  world  where  her  faith,  and  her  hope,  have  so  long 
lived.  Her  pressure  of  your  hand  at  some  casual  part- 


GRIEF    AND    JOT    OF    AGE.         279 

ing  for  a  day,  is  full  of  a  gentle  warning— as  if  she 
said — prepare  for  a  longer  adieu  ! 

Her  language  too,  without  direct  mention,  steeps 
your  thought  in  the  bitter  certainty  that  she  foresees 
her  approaching  doom  ;  and  that  she  dreads  it,  only  so 
far  as  she  dreads  the  grief,  that  will  be  left  in  her 
broken  home.  Madge — the  daughter, — glides  through 
the  duties  of  that  household,  like  an  angel  of  mercy : 
she  lingers  at  the  sick  bed — blessing,  and  taking  bless 
ings. 

The  sun  shines  warmly  without ;  and  through  the 
open  casement,  beats  warmly  upon  the  floor  within. 
The  birds  sing  in  the  joyousness  of  full-robed  summer ; 
the  drowsy  hum  of  the  bees,  stealing  sweets  from  the 
honeysuckle  that  bowers  the  window,  lulls  the  air  to  a 
gentle  quiet.  Her  breathing  scarce  breaks  the  summer 
stillness.  Yet,  she  knows  it  is  nearly  over.  Madge, 
too, — with  features  saddened,  yet  struggling  against 
grief, — feels — that  it  is  nearly  over. 

It  is  very  hard  to  think  it ; — how  much  harder  to 
know  it !  But  there  is  no  mistaking  her  look  now — so 
placid,  so  gentle,  so  resigned  !  A.nd  her  grasp  of  your 
hand — so  warm — so  full  of  meaning  ! 

"  Madge,  Madge,  must  it  be  ?"  And  a  pleasant 

smile  lights  her  eye ;  and  her  grasp  is  warmer ;  and 
her  look  is — upward. 


280  DREAM-LIFE. 

"  Must  it, — must  it  be,  dear  Madge  V A 

holier  smile, — loftier, — lit  up  of  angels,  beams  on  her 
faded  features.  The  hand  relaxes  its  clasp ;  and  you 
cling  to  it  faster — harder ; — joined  close  to  the  frail 
wreck  of  your  love  ; — -joined  tightly — but  oh,  how  far 
apart ! 

She  is  in  Heaven ; — and  you,  struggling  against  the 
grief  of  a  lorn,  old  man  ! 

But  sorrow,  however  great  it  be,  must  be  subdued  in 

the  presence  of  a  child.     Its  fevered  outbursts  must  be 

kept  for  those  silent  hours,  when  no  young  eyes  are 

watching,  and  no  young  hearts  will  "  catch  the  trick  of 

"grief." 

When  the  household  is  quiet,  and  darkened  ; — when 
Madge  is  away  from  you,  and  your  boy  Frank  slumber 
ing — as  youth  slumbers  upon  sorrow ; — when  you  are 
alone  with  God,  and  the  night, — in  that  room  so  long 
hallowed  by  her  presence,  but  now — deserted — silent ; 
— then  you  may  yield  yourself  to  such  frenzy  of  tears, 
as  your  strength  will  let  you.  And  in  your  solitary 
rambles  through  the  churchyard,  you  can  loiter  of  a 
summer's  noon,  over  her  fresh-made  grave,  and  let  your 
pent  heart  speak,  and  your  spirit  lean  toward  the  Rest, 
where  her  love  has  led  you. 

Thornton — the  clergyman,  whose  prayer  over  the 
dead,  has  dwelt  with  you,  comes  from  time  to  time,  to 


GRIEF    AND    JOT     OF    AGE.          281 

light  up  your  solitary  hearth,  wit  n  his  talk  of  the  Rest — 
for  all  men.  He  is  young,  but  his  earnest,  and  gentle 
speech,  win  their  way  to  your  heart,  and  to  your  under 
standing.  You  love  his  counsels ;  you  make  of  him  a 
friend,  whose  visits  are  long,  and  often  repeated. 

Frank  only  lingers  for  a  while  ;  and  you  bid  him 
again — adieu.  It  seems  to  you  that  it  may  well  be 
the  last ;  and  your  blessing  trembles  on  your  lip.  Yet 
you  look  not  with  dread,  but  rather,  with  a  firm  trust 
fulness  toward  the  day  of  the  end.  For  your  darling 
Madge,  it  is  true,  you  have  anxieties  ;  you  fear  to  leave 
her  lonely  in  the  world,  with  no  protector  save  the 
wayward  Frank. 

It  is  later  August,  when  you  call  to  Madge  one  day,  to 
bring  you  the  little  escritoire,  in  which  are  your  cherished 
papers ; — among  them  is  your  last  will  and  testament. 
Thornton  has  just  left  you ;  and  it  seems  to  you  that 
his  repeated  kindnesses  are  deserving  of  some  substantial 
mark  of  your  regard. 

"  Mao-gie" — you  say,  "  Mr.  Thornton  has  been  very 
k  nd  to  me." 

"  Very  kind,  father." 

"  I  mean  to  leave  him  here,  some  little  legacy,  Mag 
gie." 

"  I  would  not,  father." 

"  But  Madge,  my  daughter  !" 


282  D  R  E  A  M  -  L  I  F  E  . 

"  He  is  not  looking  for  such  return,  father." 

"  But  he  has  been  very  kind,  Madge ;  I  must  show 
him  some  strong  token  of  my  regard.  What  shall  it 
be,  Maggie  ?" 

Madge  hesitates  ; — Madge  blushes ; — Madge  stoops 
to  her  father's  ear,  as  if  the  very  walls  might  catch  the 
secret  of  her  heart ; — "  Would  you  give  me  to  him, 
father  ?" 

"But — my  dear  Madge — has  he  asked  this?" 

"  Eight  months  ago,  papa." 

"  And  you  told  him " 

"  That  I  would  never  leave  you,  so  long  as  you 
lived !" 

"My  own  dear  Madge,— come   to   me, — kiss 

me  1     And  you  love  him,  Maggie  ?" 

"  With  all  my  heart,  sir." 

"  So  like  your  mother, — the  same  figure, — the 

same  true  honest  heart !  It  shall  be  as  you  wish,  dear 
Madge.  Only,  you  will  not  leave  me  in  my  old  age  ; 
—Eh,  Maggie  ?" 

"  Never,  father,  never." 

And   there   she   leans   upon    his   chair  ; — her 

arm  around  the  old  man's  neck, — her  other  hand 
clasped  in  his ;  and  her  eyes  melting  with  tenderness, 
as  she  gazes  upon  his  aged  face, — all  radiant  with  joy, 
and  with  hopo. 


IV. 

THE    END    OF    DREAMS. 

A  FEEBLE  old  man,  and  a  young  lady,  who  is  just 
XJL  now  blooming  into  the  maturity  of  womanhood, 
are  toiling  up  a  gentle  slope,  where  the  spring  sun  lies 
warmly.  The  old  man  totters,  though  he  leans  heavily 
upon  his  cane  ;  and  he  pants,  as  he  seats  himself  upon 
a  mossy  rock,  that  crowns  the  summit  of  the  slope. 
As  he  recovers  breath,  he  draws  the  hand  of  the  lady  in 
his,  and  with  a  trembling  eagerness  he  points  out  an 
old  mansion  that  lies  below  under  the  shadow  of  tall 

sycamores ;  and  he  says — feebly  and  brokenly, 

"  That  is  it,  Maggie, — the  .old  home, — the  sycamores, — 
the  garret, — Charlie, — Nelly" 

The  old  man  wipes  his  eyes.     Then  his  hand  shifts  : 


284  DREAM- LIFE. 

he  seems  groping  in  darkness ;  but  soon  it  rests  upon  a 
Jttle  cottage  below,  heavily  overshadowed  :— 

"  That  was  it,  Maggie  : — Madge  lived  there — sweet 
Madge, — your  mother," 

Again  the  old  man  wipes  his  eyes,  and  the  lady 
turns  away. 

Presently  they  walk  down  the  hill  together.  They 
cross  a  little  valley,  with  slow,  faltering  steps.  The  lady 
guides  him  carefully,  until  they  reach  a  little  grave 
yard. 

"This  must  be  it,  Maggie,  but  the  fence  is  new. 
There  it  is  Maggie,  under  the  willow, — my  poor 
mother's  grave !" 

The  lady  weeps. 

"  Thank  you,  Madge  :  you  did  not  know  her,  but 
you  weep  for  me  : — God  bless  you  !" 

The  old  man  is  in  the  midst  of  his  household.  It  is 
some  festive  day.  He  holds  feebly  his  place,  at  the 
head  of  the  board.  He  utters  in  feeble  tones — a 
Thanksgiving. 

His  married  Nelly  is  there,  with  two  blooming 
children.  Frank  is  there,  with  his  bride.  Madge — 
dearest  of  all, — is  seated  beside  the  old  man,  watchful 
of  his  comfort,  and  assisting  him,  as,  with  a  shadowy 
dignity,  he  essays  to  do  the  honors  of  the  board. 
The  children  prattle  merrily :  the  elder  ones  talk  of  the 


THE    END    OF    DREAMS.  285 

days  gone  by;  and  the  old  man  enters  feebly — yet 
with  floating  glimpses  of  glee, — into  the  cheer,  and  the 
rejoicings. 

Poor  old  man,  he  is  near  his  tomb !     Yet  his 

calm  eye,  looking  upward,  seems  to  show  no  fear. 

The  same  old  man  is  in  his  chamber :  he  cannot 
leave  his  chair  now.  Madge  is  beside  him :  Nelly 
is  there  too,  with  her  eldest-born.  Madge  has  been 
reading  to  the  old  man  : — it  was  a  passage  of  promise 
— of  the  Bible  promise. 

"  A  glorious  promise," — says  the  old  man  feebly. 

" A  promise  to  me, — a  promise  to  her — poor 

Madge !" 

"  Is  her  picture  there,  Maggie  ?" 

Madge  brings  it  to  him  :  he  turns  his  head  ;  but  the 
light  is  not  strong.  They  wheel  his  chair  to  the 
window.  The  sun  is  shining  brightly : — still  the  old 
man  cannot  see. 

"  It  is  getting  dark,  Maggie." 

Mcidge  looks  at  Nelly — wistfully — sadly. 

The  old  man  murmurs  something  ;  and  Madge 
stoops  : "  Coming,"  he  says "  coming  !" 

Nelly  brings  the  little  child  to  take  his  hand. 
Perhaps  it  will  revive  him.  She  lifts  her  boy  to  kiss 
his  cheek. 


286  DREAM-LIFE. 

The  old  man  does  not  stir :  his  eyes  do  not  move : — 
they  seem  fixed  above.     The  child  cries  as  his  lips 

touch   the   cold    cheek: It    is   a   tender   SPRING 

flower,  upon  the  bosom  of  the  dying  WINTER  ! 

The  old  man  is  gone:   his   dream  life  is 

ended. 


THE    END. 


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Mitchell,  D.G. 
Dream  life. 


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